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GZ3S'u
THE UNIVERSAL ANTHOLOGY
WITH BIBLIOGRAPHIC ESSAYS
BY
RICHARD GARNETT
(Editor-in-Chief)
LEON VALLEE
(Fkbwoi LnrssATURB)
ALOIS BRANDL
(GUMAM LmXATUtB)
AND
PAUL BOURGET
(French Critical Essays)
EMILE ZOLA
(French Naturalistic Literature)
EDWARD DOWDEN
(Elixabethan Literature)
DEAN FARRAR
(Literature of Religious Criticism)
E. MELCHIOR DE VOGUE
(Russian Literature)
DONALD G. MITCHELL
(Collected Literature)
F. BRUNETIERE
(Modem French Poetry)
HENRY SMITH WILLIAMS
(Scientific Literature)
AINSWORTH R. SPOFFORD
(American Literature)
ANDREW LANG
(Nineteenth Century Literature^
HENRY JAMES
(The Novel)
MAURICE MAETERLINCK
(The JModem Drama)
PASQLIALE VILLARI
(The Italian Renaissance)
BRET HARTE
(Short Stories)
ARMANDO PALACIO VALDES
(Decadent Literature)
EDMUND GOSSE
(Poetry)
J. P. MAHAFFY
(Historical Literature)
WALTER BESANT
(Historical Novels)
This Westminster Edition, in English, of The Universal
Anthology is limited to one thousand complete sets, of which this
copy is number -
.■ v.
r O-XH MIUJ3HN NdC-
nwnpeiuicotuocw
MNtT^Un lOOGUOC
Ethiopic ahd Coptic Biblical MSS, (Eighth Century.)
TAe ElAiofiic version of the Old Testamerd is considered lo huvt been made
front the Septuagint, as early as the feurlA ctntury. The Psalms
were puMisked at Rome in I J > 3 i^ Fotken, and subsequently
rtprinUd ty Bishop Walton in his Polyglot BibU. The British Museum
possesses but very few [six) Efhiopic MSS. The only
tntir* copy of the Coptic Bible, is tfated to be in the possession
of M, Marttl.
Ethiopic and Coptic Biblical Mss.
The Ethiopic version of the Old Testament is considered to have
been made from the Septuagint, as early as the fourth century. The
Psalms were published at Rome in 15 13 by Potken, and were subse-
quently reprinted by Bishop Walton in his Polyglot Bible. The
British Museum possesses but very few (six) Ethiopic MSS. The only
known entire copy of the Coptic Bible is stated by M. Quatremere to
be in the possession of M. Marcel. The great resemblance between
the Coptic characters (which supplanted those of Ancient Egypt) and
those of the Greek alphabet will not fail to attract attention.
WESTMINSTER EDITION
THE
UNIVERSAL ANTHOLOGY
A COLLLt:TION OF THH BiST LiTHRATCRE. ANCinNT, MkDI/EVAL AND MODERN,
WITH Biographical and Kxplanatory Notes
EDITED BY
RICHARD QARNETT
KEEPKR OF PRINTED BOOKS AT THB BRItHHi MUSEUM, LONDON, 1 85 1 TO 1899
LEON VALLfiE
LIBRARIAN AT THB BIBLIOTHft<SJB NAT10NALB, PARIS, 5INCB 1 87 1
ALOIS BRANDL
rXOFESSOR OF LITRRATURE IN THE IMPERIAL UNIVERSITY OF BHRLIN
Uolumc H^inc
PUBLISHED BY
THE CLARKE COMPANY, Limited, London
MERRILL & BAKER, New York EMILE TERQUEM, Paris
BIBLIOTHEK VERLAG, Berlin
£nterMl tt SUtlonen* Hall
Londoo, 18B0
Droiu dr reprodnction et de tradactloD r im rrk
Pkria, 1890
Alle reciilA, liwbeiODdere daa dcr ITbcfwtaiiiig, TorbeluUt^
Berlin, 18W.
Propri«U LetterarU, RiMrraM tntH 1 dlTitti
Rome, 1890
CopjrlfTht 1H00
by
Rlchanl Itunett
TABLE OF CONTENTS.
VOLUME DL
PAsa
Chaxaotkbutiob or Elizabbthan Litbbatubb. Introduction by Fro-
feflsoT Edwaid Dowden 13
Last Days of Guy of Warwick . Old Bomance
Robert the DeTil Old Bomance
A Danish Bairow on the Devon Coast Francis T. Palgrave
The Pied Piper of Hamelin .... Bobert Browning
Harald Haarfager^s Saga .... Snorro Sturleson
The Anarchy under Stephen . Anglo-Saxon Chronicle
Conquest of Ireland by Strongbow . Giraldus Canibrensis
Characters of Dermot Mac Murrough and Strongbow .
The Aspiration of Bishop Grolias . . Walter Map
Robin Hood and the Monk . . . '' The Lytel Qest^^
Robin Hood and Biaid Mariian before Re-
naming Thomas Love Peacock
The Cid : John Ormsby.
The Defeat of the Moors
The Overthrow of Count Raymond
The Cid's Complaint of his Daughters* Wrongs, and his Requital
Old Qerman Love Songs .... TV. Max MUller .
Poems of the Minnesingers . . .TV. Taylor and Austin
Harald the Hardy, Sonnet of ^^Der Mamer," Dietmar of Ast,
Wolfram von Eschenbach, Christian of Hamle, **The Chancellor,"
Ulrich of Lichtenstein, Watch Song, Henry of Morunge, Walter
von der Vogelweide, Hugh of Werbenwag
Episodes from the Nibelungenlied TV. Lettsom
How Gunther went to Issland to woo Brunhild
How Gunther won Brunhild
The Fray in EtzePs Hall : Saga of Folker the Minstrel Warrior
Kriemhild Fires the Hall
Deaths of Hagan and Gunther: the End ....
Aucassin and Nicolete TV. Lang .
Poems of the Troubadours . . .TV. Taylor and Austin
The Countess de Die, Pons de Capdueil, Bernard de Ventadour,
Bertrand de Bom, Pierre Vidal, Qiraud de Bomeil .
Poems of the Trouvftres .... TV. Taylor and Austin
Thibaud, King of Navarre, Barbe de Verrue, Fraigne, Christine de
Pisan, Charles of Orleans
The Rescue of M^ti BhavabhUti .
Rustam and Akwan Dev .... Firdusi
Rub4iy&t of Omar Khayy^Un Omar (Fitzgerald's)
The Bird Parliament AU&r (Fitzgerald's)
Apologues and Morals from the Qulistan 8a''di .
ix
27
30
46
46
53
66
70
79
80
81
87
103
106
108
114
121
132
133
133
187
146
149
162
166
166
171
172
176
176
179
182
106
207
TABLE OF CONTENTa
Avicenna
Emett Benan
Averrvii
PAOI
817
220
220
226
227
2d4
242
268
269
264
260
Medicine and its Sabjects
Tbe Fhiloeophy of Averrote
I. Theory of the Intellect .
IL On the Immortality of the Soul
OnBCan
Abdlaid:
L Early Career: Relations with
Hflolse G, H. Lewes
IL Later Career: Straggle with St
Bernard H. H, MUman
in. From the First Two Letters between H^lolse and Ab^lard
Little Flowers of SL Francis of Assisi
Sonnet 8t. FraneU of AbwUI
Cognition, Existence, and the Soul 8t, Thoma» Aquinas
Dies Ine 8t, Thomas of Celano
Transhttions bj Key. William J. Irons and Thomas KacKellar.
An thou Weary ? , . 8l Stephen the SahaUe (tr. J, M. Neale)
The Rhythm of Bernard de Morlaix . . Bernard of Cluny {tr, Neale) 270
Easter Hymn Adamof8t.Viaor\tr. Neale) 280
Character of St Louis Jean de JoinvUle . 282
Canzone : of his Lady in Bondage . Emperor Frederick II . . 200
The Emperor Frederick the Second . Edward A, Freeman . . 202
The Diver Schiller {tr. Bulwr) . . 801
The Divine Comedy Dante 800
The Inferno :
Opening TV. Cary
Story of Franceeca da Rimini . TV. Bitron .
Story of Ugolino . . .TV. Corf •
The New Life Tr, RossetH
Sonnets Ikinte (tr. B, Gamett)
WnoT Poems Dante (tr. BosseUi) .
Dante beseecheth Death for Beatrice's Life 824
Sestina : of the Lady Fietra degli Sorovigni 326
His Pitiful Song 827
KnblaiKhan Marco FOloitr.Coi.H.TuU) 329
Writings of Alfonso the Wise 840
Kings and their Subjects 840
Welcome to May 343
Letter Beseeching Aid 844
On the Non-Existenoe of Magic . . Soger Bacon . 846
L Of and Against Fabricated Appearanoes, and Of and Against
Invocation of SpiriU 846
n. Of Magic Characters, Charms, and their Uses . . • . 846
IV. On Wonderful Artificial InstnimsnU 349
V. Of Kx|)erimenU in ArUflcial Sight 349
VIII. Of Concealing the Secreu of Nature and Art . .861
XL How to Make the Philosophor's Egg (or Stone) and Gunpowder 862
The Famous Hlstorl« of Fryer llaoou . iMd liomanoe . 868
Village Ufe In England His HandnHl Ymun
Ago AugHMus Jessi^ . 868
Marion*8 Death and WaUaoe*8 VougiNuio« . J*tnf iS^rier ... 886
Bannookbum il«>6€fC Bums ... 406
306
311
312
316
821
824
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.
VOLUME IX.
ETHIOPIC AND COPTIC BIBLICAL MSS. Illuminatbd BfAiru-
80XIPT FrontUpiece
PAGB
EDWABD DOWDEN 18
THE PIED PIPER OF HAMELIN 49
THE RHINE DAUGHTERS 136
*'0 HOLT, PLACID HABP NOTES
277
Of that etebnal htwv ! **
ST. LOUIS AND ST. VINCENT DE BEAUVAIS .... 287
xi
j
Edward Dowden
CJHARACTEEISTICS OF ELIZABETHAN LITEIIATTTEE
Bt Pbofessor Dowdbn
Whsn we name the Elizabethan period of English literature^ our
imagination runs forward to include those years of the reign of
James I. during which the chief formative influences in literature
were derived from the preceding reign. We hardly think at all of
those earlier years which preceded the advent of Spenser. We
grasp at results, and are unjust and ungrateful to a laborious
generation, without whose toU those results could never have been
attained. If we view the whole tract of time from the accession
of Elizabeth to the death of King James as a single epoch, memor-
able for the erection of great structures of thought and imagination,
having a distinctive style and character of their own, we may
divide that epoch into three periods, which I would name the
Foundations, the Culmination, and last, the Decline and Disso-
lution. The Decline came gradually and almost imperceptibly ; if
we date its commencement from the year in which Shakespeare
ceased to write, this is only a date of convenience, not of historical
precision. But we are fortunate in being able to say exactly when
the Foundations were fully laid. During twenty years faithful
workmen were hewing the materials, and making the substructure
firm. In 1579 the work rose to view ; in that year w£w published
the first part of Lyly's Euphues, which present^ in a popular form
the new ideals of culture, of manners, of education ; at the same
moment appeared the greatest of English prose translations, North's
PliUareh, which held up before Elizabethan heroism a model in the
heroism of Greece and Some ; and again in that fortunate year
xiu
xiy CHARACTEBISTICS OF ELIZABETHAN LITEBATUBE
the future poet of modem chivalry, of EngliBh morals, English
patriotism, and Italian viEdons of beauty was discovered in the
author of The ShephercTs Calendar,
The work of Elizabeth's earher years consisted chiefly in the
reconstruction of order in Church and State. Dangers from France,
dangers from Spain, dangers from Scotland were met or were skilfully
warded off. By a series of opportune compromises an ecclesiastical
settlement was effected, and the Protestantism of the English
nation was secured. Social discontents were allayed; commerce
and manufacture flourished, and the desire for new and splendid
pleasures followed the increase of wealth. Around a great monarchy
gathered great courtiers; and as a banner becomes the rallying-
point and centre of enthusiasm for an armed host, so Elizabeth, the
truest representative of the people, was uplifted by the hearts and
imaginations of her subjects into an emblem of the national unity
and the national pride.
The literary work of the period, which I name the Foundations,
was in the main that of finding and bringing the materials, and of
placing them in order. At the seune time, workmen were receiving
some training in the processes of art, though as yet their efforts
were the tentative endeavours of unskilled hands, and they made
those false starts which often precede, and often must precede,
ultimate succes& The materials were in part historical With
the sense that England was a nation, at one with herself, and hold-
ing her own among the powers of Europe, came an awakened
interest in the story of her past. The printer Grafton, having
retired from his labours at the press, redacted, in a business-like
manner rather than a scholarly, the chronicles of England. His
rival Stow, who held Grafton in scorn, collected documents, tran-
scribed manuscripts, proved his reverence for our elder poetry by
an edition of Chaucer, and, pursuing his antiquEirian studies with
a zeal which poverty could not diminish, compiled the most faithful
of sixteenth-century annals. Foxe, in the spirit which the Marian
persecutions had inevitably aroused, recorded the sufferings and
the heroisms of the martyrs ; dedications to Jesus Christ, and to
His servant the Queen of England, are prefixed to the first edition
CHARACTERISTIOS OF ELIZABETHAN LITERATURE xv
of his Actea and Monuments. Holinshed was unawares laying the
bases of the chronicle plays of Shakespeare. Already Camden,
encouraged by his fellow-student, Philip Sidney, was gathering
that body of knowledge which makes his Britannia even still a
substantial gift to students. Archbishop Parker, the patron of
both Stow and Grafton, found time, amid the duties of the primacy,
to save from destruction or loss inestimable treasures of the past,
scattered from monastic libraries, and to compile a learned folio on
English ecclesiastical history and biography. Even poetry looked
to English history for its support and sustenance. That large and
ever-expanding series of tragic narratives, A Mirror for Magistrates,
the co-operative labour of a generation, is an encyclopaedia of
national history in verse. Oorloduc, the first regular tragedy,
renders into dramatic form matter which, though not authentic
history, was a fragment of the legend of ancient Britain.
But the England of Elizabeth, because it was patriotic in the
best sense of the word, was also cosmopolitan. It is a timid spirit
of nationality which fears to accept the gifts of other lands. The
builders brought material from the Greece and Rome of classical
antiquity, and from modem Italy, from France, from Spain.
Shakespeare as a boy may have read Ovid in the original; he
certainly was acquainted with the Metamorphoses in Arthur
Golding's translation. The first tragedy in which Shakespeare
brought terror into alliance with beauty is founded on Arthur
Brooke's rehandling of Bandello's story of Eomeo and Juliet as
given in a French version. Painter's great collection of tales,
chiefly from Italian sources. The Palace of Plea^swre, became a store-
house for the use of dramatists in search of plots or incidents.
Without the work of the earlier years of Elizabeth's reign, the
work of the later and greater years could never have been accom-
plished. It taught the Elizabethan imagination to explore the
past and to £are forth in the modem world on courageous adventure ;
it created a demand for the colour and warmth and psussion of the
south; it sent the poets abroad as gallant freebooters to ravage
foreign shores and bring home their treasures.
And at the same time there was at least a tuning of the instru-
xYi CHARACTERISTICS OF ELIZABETHAN LITERATURE
ments preparatory to the great symphony. It may seem as if little
progress in the harmony of verse was made since the publication of
Wyatt's and Surrey's poems in TotteVa Miscdlany ; and in truth no
poet during the interval between the appearance of that volume and
the appearance of The Shepherd^ $ Calendar was in a high sense an
inventor of harmony. But it was necessary that the old forms
should be worn out, and that unsuccessful experiments should be
made before such nobler forms as the Spenserian stanza or the
blank verse of Marlowe's Doctor Favstus could be created. Creoige
Gascoigne never quite succeeded in anything, but he was versatile
in experiment, and opened new avenues for his successors. As he
rode from Chelmsford to London, he tells us his brain was beating
out the lines of an elegy, but " being overtaken with a dash of
rain, I struck over into the De Profundisr Five sundry gentle-
men desired him to write in verse something worthy to be remem-
bered, and forthwith he compiled five sundry sorts of metre, upon
five sundry themes which [they delivered to him. Mr. Gosse has
connected the outbreak of later Elizabethan song with the growing
cultivation of music, and especially of music for the lute. Prob-
ably both developments of lyrical feeling had a common cause in
the coalescing of sentiment or passion with that imagination, now
refined and educated, which lives within the cells of hearing ; and
song lying close to music, each could render appropriate service to
the other.
Imagine a young man of genius arriving at a consciousness of
his adult powers in the years immediately after this preparatory
work had been achieved. He would sail with wind astern and
tide in his favour, and he might achieve much. He would have
in him the pride of England without the insular narrowness and
prejudice. He would be politically a member of a powerful and
haughty nation, while intellectually the citizen of a commonwealth
no less than European. Living in the present day, quick as it was
with life and action, he would be the inheritor of all the past — the
past of his own people, the illustrious past of Greece and Home.
The Renaissance would have brought him an enthusiasm for beauty,
and a delight in the tragic, pathetic, and mirthful play of human
CHARACTERISTICS OF ELIZABETHAN LITERATURE xvii
passion. The Beformation would have brought him seriousness, a
veneration for conscience, and a sense of the sacred purpose of life.
The one tradition would prepare him to pursue new avenues of the
expanding intellect of man ; the other tradition would reinforce
his feeling for the abiding truths of the spirit. Hebraism and
Hellenism might meet in his consciousness, and encounter there
without opposition. Arthur Golding, the translator of Ovid's
Metamorphoses, was also the translator of Calvin's Sermons, and no
one belonging to the middle party of wisdom and moderation
would have thought of commenting upon the fact as strange.
It is true that there was a considerable body of Puritan opinion
which anticipated the coming danger, and viewed with more than
distrust the new unbridled appetite for pleasure. It is true that
among the dramatists there was a small party of revolters against
the doctrine and even the temper of religion. But the higher
mind of England held on the middle way, the way of conciliation.
And the greatness of Elizabethan literature is in a large measure
to be accounted for by the fact that it expressed no fragment of
the life and mind of the time, but all the powers of our manhood
— the senses, the passions, the intellect, the conscience, the will —
co-operating one with another in a harmonious whole. In the
period of the Eestoration the higher mind of England was directed
towards the discoveries of science ; the literature of pleasure was
dominated by the senses, and wit did brilliant things, but in the
service of the senses; pseudo-heroics and overstrained gallantry
and honour were poor substitutes for the modesty of right feeling.
In the age of Queen Anne, literature was dominated by the under-
standing , after the violences of the two extreme parties of the
nation a reconstruction had been efifected, but it was a provisional
reconstruction, the result of compromises and good sense, admir-
able for the uses of the time, but resting on a lower level than that
attained in the heroic years which brought the reign of Elizabeth
to its close. During the Middle Ages the natural and the super-
natural were too often broadly severed, and each made reprisals
upon the other ; the spirit warred against the flesh, and the flesh
against the spirit; some gross fabliau, where a priest or monk
xnii CHAEACrrEBISTIOS OF ELIZABETHAN LrTERATURE
beguiles a dotard husband, jostles an ascetic treatise, or the life of
a saint decked out with the tinsel of puerile miracles. In the
highest examples of Elizabethan Uterature the senses claim their
rights ; the Faerie Queene is a perpetual feast for the imaginative
eye and ear ; the uses of tlie senses are honoured, and their abuses
are condemned. The supernatural is foimd to dwell within the
natural ; the true miracle is the passion of love in a Cordelia or
the malignant craft of an lago. Genuine heroisms are conceivable,
and pseudo-heroics replace these only in the Elizabethan decline.
Imaginative reason utters its oracles, which are not at variance
with the words of mundane good sense ; Shakespeare's Prospero
does not discredit for us the prudential wisdom of Shakespeare's
Ulysses. The ideal is not, as was that of the age of Swift and
Pope and Addison, an ideal of moderation, balance, discretion, but
an ideal of humanity developed to the full, attaining its highest
points of vision, its highest reaches of passion, and including
among its results the intellectual conquest of nature for the service
of man.
Was it possible to unite the two streams of tendency, that
derived from the Benaissance and that derived from the Refor-
mation ? Was not the central idea of the one movement antagon-
istic to the central idea of the other ? Did not the Bcnaissance
proclaim the excellence of the natural man, while the Eeformation
preached human depravity, and the need of a renewal of man's
nature by divine grace? The answer to these questions may
partly be found in the facts of history ; for one brief period at
least, the two streams ran together and made a single current swift
and fulL A reconciliation of the rival tendencies was attained in
Elizabethan literature ; afterwards, for a time the streams parted ;
the tradition of the Reformation, developing to further reforms,
belonged in the main to the Puritan party ; the tradition of the
Renaissance, dwindling from its earlier and higher meanings,
belonged in the main to the Cavaliers. Yet such ¥rriters as
Jeremy Taylor and Donne and Herbert, show that in the Royalist
party the serious temper of the religious reform could co-exist with
all the learning, t^ eloquence, the refinement of Rfinaiflsanoe
CHAIUICTERISTIOS OP ELIZABETHAN LITEBATUEE xix
culture. And, on the other hand, it is a remarkable fact that no
loftier conception of a harmonious co-operation of the spirit of
religum with the passion for self -development— self -development
with a view to public duties — ^is anywhere to be found than in the
writings of the Puritan Milton. Man, he tells us, is fallen ; but
man was created in the image of God; and it is not hj some
sudden ingress of divine grace that Grod's image can now be fully
renewed and restored ; every art and every science is needed to
accomplish that work. Every energy of the intellect, every
natural delight of the body, Milton tells us, is pure and sacred.
Evil has entered into the world ; but virtue is not to be attained
by flying from evil into cloistered innocence ; let good and evil
meet in vigorous conflict ; let truth and falsehood grapple. And
it was the Puritan Milton who set forth a magnificent conception
of the pleasures of England as organised, subsidiseil, and wisely
controlled by an enlightened national government. 7t is false to
assert that a reconciliation between the Benaissance and the Sefor-
mation was impossible ; it is unquestionably true that the clanger of
a breach, caused by the extreme parties on either side, was great.
We must remember that the Benaissance influence found
entrance into England, not through a literature of licentious
pleasure, but in the serious form of the New Learning. Erasmus
was erudite, ynttj, satirical ; More was full of a gracious humour,
a lover of domestic joys, a lover of all innocent mirth. But these
representatives of the early Benaissance in England, and their
fellows, were men of serious lives, who aimed at serious ends;
they were, indeed, or they strove to be, reformers, reformers in
matters social, in morals, in education, and even to some extent in
politics. The tradition of the New Learning, its grave temper, its
earnest purpose were not wholly lost in the days of Elizabeth ; the
Benaissance had still with some men an ethical side, and it was
felt that a noble humanism included a regard for what is highest
in character. On the other hand, the Beformed Church of England
bad its mundane side; the Queen was vice-gerent of the head
of the Church ; the bishops held their seats in the great council of
the nation ; the ecclesiastical ritual was not wanting in an ordered
XX CHARACTERISTICS OF ELIZABETHAN LITERATIJRE
beauty appealing to the sensee or to the ''spirit ia sense"; a
priest might be a husband and the father of a family. The con-
ditions, on the whole, were favourable to the formation of a middle
party, serious, and sincerely attached to the reformed faith, and at
the same time not averse to learning and culture, not averse to the
honest joys of life. The Beformation to some extent was, like the
Eenaissance, an enfranchisement of reason, an enfranchisement of
humanity ; and by its appeal to Scripture, and to private judgment,
it assuredly quickened the intellect as well as the conscience of
men. The Queen, essentially a woman of the Eenaissance in her
craft, her passions, her versatility, her love of pomp and splendour,
was loyal, for political reasons, if for no other, to the teaching of
the Beformation; below her sensuality, her fits of temper, her
shifting moods, she was eminently rational ; she felt deeply the
importance of maintaining the unity of the nation's life, and had a
geniiine hatred of the madness of extremes. And Puritanism as
yet was chiefly concerned with details of ceremony; the more
deep-seated theological controversies between Arminian high-
churchman and Calvinistic Puritan waited for the reign of King
James ; the alliance of political passions with Puritamsm waited
for the reign of Charles.
Thus broad-based, Elizabethan literature, in its best and most
characteristic work, was naturally broad-minded. The pupil of its
great masters will come to think of literature as concerned with
life, and with life as a whole. The work of those masters has
neither the narrowness of the ascetic, nor the narrowness of the
voluptuary. There is a beautiful idealism in art, which ignores
the presence of evil in the world, and dreams such celestial dreams
as Fra Angelico made radiant in cplour. We shall not find such
idealism in Shakespeare or even in Spenser. They have their feet
planted on the earth, and Elizabethan England was very far
removed from the Paradise of the mediaeval painter. But it was
equally far removed from the world of sots and gallants, and the
women who know how to court their own piirsuit by rake or
gallant, in Bestoration comedy.
The great efiPort of the time may be described as an attempt to
CHARACTEEISTICS OF ELIZABETHAN LITERATUKE
make a conquest of the world of nature and the world of humanity
for the service of man. Such an attempt might be essentially
Pagan, if " man " and " the service of man " were conceived in the
way of the Eenaissance, as narrowed in its meanings by the
spokesmen of what we may term the extreme left. But to place
our great writers in separate groups, as Taine has done in his
History of English Literature, with the titles " The Pagan Benais-
sance," and " The Christian Eencdssance," and to include imder the
former Sidney and Spenser and Bacon, is to present a wholly
erroneous view of Elizabethan literature. The service of man was
understood by these great writers as the service of our complete
manhood; humanism was seen to be not merely sensual or
material, not merely intellectual and imaginative, but also ethical
and religious. And although questions of religion, considered
apart from character and action, do not form part of the theme
of dramatic poetry, there can be no doubt that the foundations
of Shakespeare's tragedies were laid deep in the spiritual nature of
man as they could not have been in an age which thought only, or
which thought chiefly, of the sensual or material parts of life. On
the other hand, no such treatise on theological and ecclesiastical
afiairs as Hooker's Hcclesiastical Polity, so broad-based on reason
and historical tradition, so comprehensive in its habit of thought,
so majestic in its way of utterance, could have been written in an
age which exalted faith at the expense of reason, which opposed
the supernatural to the natural, which divorced the life of the
Church from the life of the nation, or which was insensible to the
beauty and dignity of literary form.
Lyly's JSuphues, in its poor way, amid much dreary moralising,
and under the trappings of a detestably artificial style, held up the
new ideal of manhood. To be well-bom, well-bred, beautiful in
person, accomplished in all the graces of life, courtly, amorous, a
student of philosophy and a lover of fair women, versed in Italian
culture, yet one who honoured English morals and manners, a
patriot serious and religious, a devout servant of the English
Queen — such was the ideal. And not only young gentlemen, but
young ladies for a few years found in Euphues a manual of good
xzii 0HASACTERISTIC3 OF ELIZABETHAK LFFEBATUfiB
br^edingi If that ideal were incarnated in flesh and blood, we can
imagine how such a veritable Euphues would be cherished and
exalted in the imagination of his contemporaries, and if he were
withdrawn from their observation by an early and heroic death,
how a legend of admiration and love and modem chivalry would
gather aroimd his memory. And this was in fact what happened.
To the Elizabethan imagination, Philip Sidney was what Arthur
Hallam was to the imagination of Tennyson — the "Hesper-
Phosphor " of the time, recalling what was most beautiful in the
past and prophetic of the newer day. The legend of Sidney,
indeed, was not far removed from the actual fact. His peculiar
fascination lay in brilliance standing forth from a backgroimd of
seriousness. His ardour and impetuosity sprang from a nobility of
nature ; his passion was controlled and was directed by conscience ;
his wide and various culture seemed to be only the flowering of a
beautiful character. Even in boyhood he was noted for a ** lovely
and familiar gravity " ; in youth he already showed some of the
sagacity of a statesman, and all the courage of an English patriot.
He was a champion of the Protestant cause ; in sympathy with
the French Huguenots, the unswerving foe of Spain and of Rome,
the friend of the learned controversialist Languet, the translator of
Duplessis Momay's treatise on the Christian religion. Yet Sidney
was at the same time a true child of the Renaissance, skilled in
every accomplishment, a brilliant figure at the tournament, a
student of music, of poetry, of astronomy, a lover of Spanish and
Italian letters, an experimenter in classical metres, the defender of
the drama against Puritan scruples, author of a masque, of amorous
sonnets, of a pastoral-chivalric romance, the acquaintance of
Tintoretto and of Paolo Veronese, the patron of Giordano Bruno,
the aider of those bold explorers and adventurers who would for
England make conquest of the globe, an enthusiastic sympathiser
with Drake and Frobisher, with Raleigh and Sir Humphrey
Gilbert ; withal, Sidney was famous for a tragic passion of love
and famous for inviolable friendshipa The light work upon a sad
or solemn ground, which Bacon commends in embroideries, appears
0von in the dose of his Ufa The noble act of generosity to a
CHABACTEEISTICS OF ELIZABETHAN LITERATURE
wounded fellow-soldier on the battlefield is not the latest incident.
Ab he lay dying, Sidney attended devoutly td the ministrations of
religion, but he also had spirit to compose his poem — can we doubt
that it was playfully pathetic ? — La Cuisse rompue, which, being
arranged to music, was simg beside his bed. No wonder that the
public sorrow called forth by his early death was like that for a
great national calamity. All that was best and most characteristic
of the age had been embodied in him ; the Pagan Renaissance, as
it is named by Taiue, and the Christian Eenaissance, had been
united in the spirit of this young man ; what is national and what
is cosmopolitan had in his genius been fused into one.
The ideal which had been more nearly realised in Sidney than
in any of his contemporaries forms the subject of the master-work
of Sidney's friend and fellow-poet, who had dedicated to him, as the
"president of chivalry," that volume of verse, The ShephercTa
Calendar, which heralded the greater years of Elizabethan litera-
ture. ITie Faerie Qiceene was designed to set forth Spenser's
conception of a gentleman or noble person, and such an one as he
had actually found in Sidney. Upon a first view the poem seems
a labyrinth of flowery glades, through which for mere delight the
imagination may wander without end or aim; but Spenser had
planned it with a purpose, and that purpose had the high serious-
ness of the time. He would exhibit all the chief elements which
go to form a heroic character, all the chief dangers to which such
a character is exposed in the warfare of this world, and would
incite men towards the attainment of that magnanimity, or, as he
terms it, "magnificence," which sums up all the virtues of our
fully developed manhood. Poetry, as Sidney had conceived it, is
to be like a trumpet-call summoning men to action, and, as Sidney
had conceived, history on the one hand and moral philosophy on
the other, are to be the auxiliaries and subordinate allies of poetry.
Such was Spenser's design. He thinks of life as a warfare against
the principalities and powers of evil ; he represents godliness, self-
control, and chastity as the foundation virtues on which a complete
and beautiful humanity is to be erected ; he is at once a son of the
Eenaissance and a son of the Bef ormation ; a cosmopolitan in his
CHABACTERISTICS OF ELIZABETHAN LITERATURE
culture, and a patriot in his passion; enamoured of all beauty
appealing to the sense and to the spirit, yet no wanton lover of
sensual delights ; rather, indeed, with a certain sternness at his
heart, honouring, as much as any Puritan, the girt loins and the
lit lamp. Ariosto and Tasso, Aristotle and Plato, St. Paul and the
writer of the Apocalypse, alike contribute to the structure or the
adornment of The Faerie Queene.
When some former pupils of Hooker on one occasion visited
their master, they found him in the^fields, tending his sheep, with
a book in his hand ; it was no treatise on theology which he had
brought with him as the solace of his retirement ; it was the Odes
of Horace. He, too, the chief spokesman of the Anglican Church
in Elizabethan days, possessed that breadth of mind and that feel-
ing for beauty imited with seriousness, which were characteristic
of a time when the two great streams of tendency, Eenaissance
and Eeformation, made a single current deep and full. He would
give its due place of authority to Scripture, to tradition, to the
voice of wisdom and of learning, but in the last resort the basis of
belief must be found in the reason of man. He honours all that
is venerable in the past; he recognises the service which the
senses can render to the soul ; order and beauty in the rites and
ceremonies of religion are precious to him ; he is a liberal conserva-
tive in ecclesiastical affairs, having the same temper of mind which
Edmund Burke two centuries later applied to politica He
acknowledges the due power of authority; yet the authority, he tells
us, not of four, but of ten thousand. General Councils cannot over-
throw or resist one plain demonstration : " Companies of men, be
they never so great and reverend, are to yield imto reason, the weight
whereof is no whit prejudiced by the simplicity of the person which
doth allege it." Hooker's dominant idea is that set forth with a
majestic sweep of thought and a grave harmony of utterance in
the first book of the Ecclesiastical Polity — the idea of the whole
universe as a cosmos under the reign of law ; and such an idea is
in no ill-keeping with a period which mirrored the moral world of
man in Shakespeare's plays, and attempted a method of exploring
the laws of the material universe in Bacon's Novum Organum,
CHARACTERISTICS OF ELIZABETHAN LITERATURE
How and why did the decline and dissolution creep on, and
transform the literature of the great years of Elizabeth's reign to
the literature of the succeeding generation ? The answer is too
large to be set down here; it is partly to be discovered in the
record of political history. King James I. was learned and acute
in logical distinctions; he had not the wisdom or the tact of
Elizabeth. Buckingham was a mean successor to the great coun-
cillors of the preceding reign. The Hampton Court conference,
and the outbreaks of the KLing's intolerant temper, struck an open-
ing note of discord. The Commons and the King were soon at
war about the new impositions. The foreign policy of James
became hoplessly discredited. The lowered tone of court morals is
reflected in the drama of Fletcher. An open breach between the
two camps of the nation was already threatening. The more
serious part of the mind of England withdrew from the more
pleasure-loving part. Liberty, political and ecclesiastical, became
a more urgent need than the liberation of the mind through
humanism. The two streams of tendency which had flowed into
one in the literature of Elizabeth, now flowed, not wholly, indeed,
but in great measure, in separate channels. For the ultimate ends of
humanism political freedom and religious toleration were necessary ;
but during the clatter of pamphlets and the clash of swords
humanism must bide its time. It was not until the great scientific
movement of post-Eestoration days that the Eenaissance resumed
its course, and that the serious temper of Puritanism — the temper
of the loins girt and the lamp lit — applied itself to noble intellec-
tual purposes, which were other than those dictated by the
immediate public needs of the nation. In Newton, in Locke, in
the liberal spirit of Tillotson, we see the recovery of lost things ;
but the large wisdom and deep imaginative insight of Elizabethan
literature were not wholly recovered. Enthusiasm had been
discredited, and it needed a century, with a methodist revival and
a French Revolution, to restore it to its rights.
LAST DAYS OF GUY OF WARWICK.
[From the old English romance ** History of Guy Earl of Warwick.'' It
is not based on any historical character.]
As THE most bright and glorious shining day will have a
night of darkness to succeed, in which the earth will be wrapped
up in clouds, and all the world be clothed in sable weeds,
presenting us with drowsy heavy sleep, to keep the thoughts
of death in memory, so youth, the day of nature's strength and
beauty, which had a splendor like the eye of heaven, must
yield to fate, by the great law of nature, when length of years
shall bring life's evening on. This cogitation dwelt in Guy's
sage breast, and made him, when he was in Palestine, think of
returning to his native country. He found himself to be well
struck in years, and that his glass had but few sands to run
before the close of his declining days ; and therefore he to
England comes at last, there to be buried where he had been
born ; for this was all the cause that drew him back, to end
his days there where they first began: that his poor body after
all his toils, which through the world no resting-place had
found, in English ground at last might safely rest.
Being arrived upon his native shore, his country in extreme
distress he found ; for in each place great store of armed troops
against the foe was got in readiness. The King of Denmark
to destroy the realm a mighty army had securely landed, which
with incredible destruction marched, laying the country waste,
and burning towns, and filling all the nation full of terror ;
which forced King Athelstan, for his security, with his small
forces to retire to Winchester ; which when the Danes once
knew, they thither away, and with their warlike troops set
down before it. But that was far too strong for them to take ;
27
28 LAST DATS OF GUY OF WARWICK.
their walls of stone were then invincible, nor had they oannon
keys to let them in. The monk's invention was not then found
out, of murdering men by wholesale with their gunpowder : a
soldier then that would attain to honor, by manly strokes
could only purchase it.
Beholding now how oft they were repulsed by those strong
sallies that the English made, and that they were not like to
take the city, they beat a parley, and therein proposed that
they were willing to decide their quarrel by single combat, to
save shedding blood, between a Dane and an Englishman ; to
which, when both sides had agreed, the Danes brought forth a
mighty giant of a prodigious stature, demanding where the
foxes all were hid ; saying: "If there be one dare meet me
here, that for his country will his valor show, let him come
forth and try with me his manhood ; or else the English are
the worst of cowards. For craven cocks on their own dung-
hills will both crow and strike before they run and cry. Is
English courage now become so low that none will fight ? Are
you so fearful grown ? Then I pronounce you all faint-hearted
fools, afraid to look upon a martial man. O what prodigious
lies, in foreign lands, of these men's valor have I heard re-
peated ! What great achievements have they oft performed,
if lies be true I But they are sadly slandered ; for in their
feet their valor chiefly lies, for they with them can swiftly run
away. They have an ancient proverb to instruct them. That
it is best sleeping in a whole skin.^^ Thus did he vaunt in terms
of high disdain ; and threw down his gauntlet, saying, " There
is my glove."
All this and more Guy unperceived had heard, and for his
country's sake could bear no longer the insulting boast of this
proud Danish monster : and therefore straightway goes unto
the King, and thus, in pilgrim's weeds, addresses him : " Dread
Lord, though in this simple habit hid, this proud, insulting foe
I beg to combat ; for though I seem unfit for what I ask, I
never attempted aught but what I did : and therefore doub^
not but to free your kingdom from the invasion of injurious
Danes, by overcoming this their boasted champion."
To whom the royal Athelstan replied: " Palmer, thou seem-
est to be a man of courage ; but I fear for Colbron thou art
much too weak. Ah ! I remember once I had a champion, upon
whose head my crown I would have ventured : but valiant Guy,
LAST DAYS OF GUY OF WARWICK. 29
alas I is no more. Had he been here, I had not been thus dis-
tressed. "
To which Guy thus replied: " Great Athelstan, trust me for
once, for though I am unknown, it is a just cause in which I
do engage; and Heaven does still both favor and succeed the
just side. I cannot see one brave an English king, but, aged
as I am, my blood is fired, and nothing but his head shall be to
me satisfaction for the affront."
At which bold speech of Guy's the king was amazed ; and,
wondering at the greatness of his spirit, said, ^' Palmer, I accept
thee for my champion, and thou alone shalt be the man on
whom I am resolved to venture England's crown." And there-
upon ordered immediately that his own armor should be brought ;
which Guy, having received, soon put on ; then girting his massy
sword about him, came to the King, and of him took his leave ;
the King assuring him he did not doubt but Heaven, in whose
great cause he was engaged now, would be his strong defense,
and give him victory. " Amen," quoth Guy ; and with great
courage goes from Winchester's north gate unto Hide Mead,
where he soon found that monster of a man, treading two yards
of ground at every step.
" Art thou," the giant cried, " that mighty man on whom
the King will venture England's crown ? What, can he find
for me no fitter match than this poor rascal in a threadbare
coat ! Where are all his worthy knights and champions now ?
A wretch so base as thou art I disdain."
" Giant," said Guy, " I matter not thy words, for hadst thou
manhood, thus thou wouldst not rail, nor spend with blasts of
empty wind thy breath. A soldier's weapon best his tale can
tell. Thy destiny thou on my sword shall find, which, whilst
thou hast drops to bleed, will let thee blood: and thus I to chas-
tise thee will begin." And thereupon such blows he on him
laid, that Colbron never had felt the like before ; who with his
club waited to meet his sword, intending to have broke it with one
blow. But Guy was well aware of his design, and by his now
agility prevented him ; and therefore boldly he about him laid,
until the lubbard's breath was almost gone. For with a weighty
club did Colbron fight, which missing of his blow, fell on the
ground, and the very earth itself gave way, so ponderous were
the strokes that he designed. So long they held this wrathful,
furious fight that the spectators knew not what to judge ;
80 LA«T DATS OF GUY OF WARWICK.
though Guy on Colbron still fresh wounds bestowed^ as a prea*
age of his ensuing victory; and by his activity escaped the
danger with which each blow of Colbron*s threatened him.
At last, quoth Colbron, ^^ Englishman, forbear, and sue for
mercy, ere I strike thee down." " Villain^" quoth Guy, "thy
coward's fear I scorn, I will have thy life, or it my own shall
cost. We will never part till one be conqueror ; the King hath
ventured England on my head, and therefore I will not yield
an inch to thee, for all the wrath that Denmark ere could
boast: thou shalt find metal in these aged limbs; although thy
body bulkier be than mine, I have a heart bigger than thine
by odds. Think on thy ancient grandsire, Gogmagog, who
was at Dover fought by Corinaeus, and by that worthy Briton
overcome, though he with boldness like to thine had challenged
him; and as he then was served, so shalt thou now.'* And
thereupon Guy gave him such a stroke it made wide ruptures
in the giant's flesh, and very much provoked his furious choler,
laying about him with the utmost rage; meantime Guy man-
aged both his parts so well, which was to lay on a load upon
his foe, and save himself from his destructive blows, that he at
length gave Colbron such a wound that on the earth he tum-
bled in his gore; whilst with his blood his soul departed hence,
and in the sooty regions took fresh quarters.
Forthwith a sliout from out of the town was heard, that
made the welkin echo back the sound, which joyful was to
every English heart, and brought as great a terror to the
Danes, who with the utmost grief away departed.
King Athelstan then for his champion sent, to do him honor
for this great exploit ; who by the clergymen was first received
with that solemnity his worth deserved ; and next by all the
nobles was embraced, and entertained with trumpets, drums,
and other martial music. But Guy in these things took but
little pleasure ; refusing costly ornaments and jewels as things
that he was out of love withal. To God he only gave the praise
of all, blessing His name that thus had given him power to free
his country from invading foes ; and so entreats that he unknown
might pass, to live where poverty regards not wealth, and be
beholden to the help of none, and there, by stealth, sometime to
view the world ; for true ctnUent doth bring 90 great a treasure^ it
wiakeM the beggar richer than the king. ^ With true content will
I abide," said he, " in homely cottage, free from all resort : for
I have found within a monarch's court content can never long
LAST DAYS OF GUY OF WARWICK. 81
be made to dwell. No, there ia ambition, pride, and envj there,
and fawning flattery stepping still between." "Yet, gentle
palmer,*' said the King, ^^ I pray that thou at least wilt so far
honor me, wherever thou resolvest to abide, as to acquaint me
with thy name in private, which is the only boon I ask of thee.
Tell me but who thou art, I will ask no more, and on my royal
word I will conceal it."
** Why then," said he, " if it may please your majesty., I am
your subject, Gruy of Warwick named, that have for many years
not seen your land, but been where youth by age and travel is
tamed : yet there, dread prince, experience taught me wit, and of
the follies of the world convinced me. And now I am returned
to make my grave within that kingdom which first gave me life.
Yet shall no creature else have tiie least notice of my arrival ;
no, not my dear wife, till sickness comes, such as does threaten
death ; then I will acquaint her of my last farewell."
The King thus having heard what Guy had said, went to him,
and with joy in his arms embraced him, and with great admira-
tion answers thus : " Most worthy Earl, preserver of thy coun-
try, it grieves my soul thou wilt not live with me. O would thy
resolutions were to make, that my persuasions might prevent thy
vow I But it is too late, they are grown ripe, I see, and thou art
fixed in thy determination. Well, worthy man, in this I joy,
however, that to thy native soil thou bringest thy bones ; where
standing monuments of thy great deeds shall last unto the world's
remotest ages. In Warwick Castle shall thy sword be lodged,
to witness to the world what thou hast been. And lest the
future age should grow neglectful in the preserving of thy
memory, the castle keeper shall receive a salary, which I myself
will straightways settle on him, to keep thy sword in memory of
thee. Thy armor likewise, and thy martial spear, which did
thee service in thy high designs, shall all be carefully preserved
there ; that all such men as have distrustful thoughts may think
(if from a truth it did not spring) a king would scorn to cheat
his people so. And in thy chapel (distant thence a mile) a
bone shall hang of that devouring beast, which did so long near
Coventry remain, whose rib, by measure, was at least six foot,
destroying many that did that way pass, until thy valiant arm
the savage slew. By tradition it may down be handed, and
unto those that thither come reported, this was Gruy's armor,
this his massy blade ; these bones of murdering beasts which
he overcame ; and this the tomb wherein his corpse was aaCe
82 LAST DATS OF GUY OF WARWICK.
deposited ; this the true picture of his shape at length ; and
this the spear that of his strength did witness : for sure I hold
it as a thing ungrateful (when thy remains shall moldered be
to dust) if none shall cause some muse to sing thy fame, and
tell the worth of Guy, that English hero. Thy countr3rmen
cannot so forgetful be, when out of sight to leave thee out of
mind, when thou for them hast done such mighty things."
This said, in humble duty, wondrous meek, Guy, with a lowly
reverence, left the King, to seek some solitary cave or den,
which he unto his mansion house converted ; and buried whilst
alive, he poorly lives, making his meat of wholesome herbs and
roots. Sometimes he would repair to Warwick Castle, and
crave an alms at his dear lady's hands ; who to pilgrims did
more bounty show than any lady in the land besides : and she
would ask all palmers that came there if they were ever in the
Holy Land ; or, if they in their travels had seen an English-
man, lord of that noble castle, who many years from hence had
been away ? " He was a knight that never was conquered yet
by any human power : I only fear one cruel tyrant, who is
called death ; if he has met him, then, my dearest lord, I never
shall behold thy face again, until that monster do as much for
me, and so unite our hearts again together, which gracious
Heaven grant : if Guy be dead, O let me on the earth no longer
stay."
Thus often did he hear his wife inquiring with deep
complaints, from extreme passion flowing, yet by no means
would grant her kind request, nor yet bestow one hopeful word
of comfort ; but yet would view her, as if his heart would
break ; then, to prevent his speaking, turn away ; and so, even
weeping, to his cell depart : there placing before his eyes a
dead man's head ; saying : " With thee I will shortly come to
dwell, and therefore do despise this sinful flesh : my soul is
weary of a guest so bad, and therefore doth at rest desire to be.
My strength is from my feeble limbs departed, and sickness
now begins to gripe my heart : my happiness is now apace
approaching, and I am in hope my foe and I shall part. Long
time, alas ! I have fed this adversary, by whom my soul hath
been misled so oft. To my dear Phaelice I will send my ring,
which I to keep did promise for her sake. I now no longer
will the time defer, for fear lest death surprise me unawares.
Methinks I feel his messenger approach, and poor, weak nature
must be forced to yield."
LAST DAYS OF GUY OF WARWICK. 88
Then called a herdsman as he passed by, and said: ^^Good
friend, one kindness I desire of thee, and hope thou wilt not
deny it me, for it is a matter that concerns me highly : it is
thou wilt repair to Warwick Castle, and for the Countess ask
with trusty care, and then into her hand this rmg deliver, and
say the ancient pilgrim sent it her that lately at her gate with
scrip did stand, to beg an alms in blessed Jesus' name. And
if she ask thee where I may be found, direct her hither ; she
will well reward thee."
" Sir," said the herdsman, " I shall be ashamed who never
yet spake to a lady in my life : besides, I may perhaps come
into trouble, to carry rings to the Earl of Warwick's Countess.
And then say I should lose it by the way, what would the
Countess or yourself say to me?"
" Prithee," said Guy, " frame no such idle doubts, no preju-
dice can come to thee at all ; the thing is honest about which
thou goest, and none can call thee into question for it. A
courteous ear the lady will give thee, and on my word you will
receive no harm."
With that he goes and delivers the token to the Countess ;
which she receiving, was presently with admiration struck.
" O friend," said she, " where is my husband's being ? "
" Husband ! " said he, " I nothing know of that. It was
from an ancient beggar I received the ring, whose house I can-
not well describe ; for it is neither made of wood nor stone, but
under ground he went into a hole. And in my conscience,
there alone he dwells, and never pays his landlord quar-
ter's rent."
" Ah ! it is my Guy," said she ; " show me his cell, and for
thy pains I will very well reward thee." And then ordering her
steward to give the messenger a hundred marks for bringing
her those welcome tidings, she straight went with him to the
lonely cave, in which her lord led such a solitary life ; but he,
espying her, as weak and feeble as he was, went forth to meet
her, and there her lord and she embraced each other, and
wept awhile ere they could speak a word : and after a good
space that they had been silent, Guy first the doors of
silence thus did break : —
" Phaelice," said he, " now take thy leave of Guy, who sent
to thee, ere his sight decays : within thy arms I do entreat to
die, and breathe my spirit hence from thy sweet soul. It is
not long since to me thou gavest alms at Warwick's Castle
VOL. IX. — 8
84 LAST DATS OF GUY OF WARWICK.
gate ; it is blessedness poor men's estate to pity. Look not so
strange, my dear, lament not so. Ah I weep not, love, I do
not want thy tears ; for since my coming here I have plenty of
tears of true remorse, conscience knows. Thou weepest not
now, because I wept no more ; but to behold me friendless,
poor, and wretched. My love, I have sought the place that I
desire, though few endeavor for eternal rest. The soul which
unto heaven doth aspire, and only seeks after celestial things,
must leave the world and all its fading joys, and all the vani-
ties thereof detest : for could we see it with a spiritual eye, we
should discern it full of naught but devils, that always lie in
wait to ruin souls, and to that end are always laying baits to
trap and ensnare them. O Phselice I I have spent ( and then
he wept ) youth, nature's day, upon the love of thee ; and for
my God have kept old rotten age, the night of nature : Christ,
my sin forgive ; sorrow for this lies heavy on my soul. O
blessed Savior I pardon my misdeeds, in that I have destroyed
so many men, even for one woman, to enjoy her love. And
therefore in this solitary cave, with God above I have sought
my peace to make ; against whom I have been more misled by
sin than all the hairs upon my head can number. The other
day, finding my body ill, and all the parts thereof with pain
oppressed, I did compose this will and testament to be the last
I ever ordain. Lo I here it is, and, if I can, I will read it,
before I cease to be a living man.
HIS LAST WILL AND TESTAMENT.
" Even in the name of Him whose mighty power did heaven
and earth and all things else create, as one that is this instant
hour to die, I do with an unfeigned heart and mind leave both
the world and everything therein. My soul I give to Him that
gave it me ; receive it, Jesus, as in Thee I trust. I owe a debt
of life that is due to death, and when I have paid Him, He can
ask no more. It is but a little breath, a very vapor, and I
could wish He had it long ago. But here is my comfort : when-
soever He comes, it is ready for Him, though He calls to-day.
I owe the world that stock of wealth it lent me when I at first
began to traffic with it. Less would have given nature more
content : the world leaves me naked, as I came into it ; I
ask but one poor sheet to wrap me in. I do bequeath my
numberless transgressions, my sins and evils, they that are so
LAST DAYS OF GUY OP WARWICK. 86
many that they exceed the bounds of all arithmetic, those past,
those present, all that are to come, to him that made them loads
to burden me ; Satan, receive them, for from thee they came.
I give good thoughts, and every virtuous action, that every
grace has guided me unto, to Him from whom proceedeth all
that is good. For only evil I by nature do, being conceived,
bred, and born in sin, and all my life has been most vile and
vain. I give to sorrow all my sighs and tears, fetched from the
bottom of a bleeding heart. I give to repentance, tears and
watery eyes of a true convert, and unfeigned sighs. Let earth,
or sea, a grave yield to my body ; so, Jesus, to my soul grant
room in heaven."
" Phaelice, I faint ; farewell, my loyal spouse : thy husband
dies; assist me with thy prayers. I trust to meet thee in a
better life, where tears from weeping eyes shall be wiped before
the blessed Spirit ; come, in Jesus' name receive, and then con-
vey my soul to heaven." With these last words, death closed
his eyes, and he to his Creator his blessed soul resigned, while
mournful Phselice, well-nigh dead with grief, to sorrow all her
senses did abandon, and with her tears drowns her departed
lord ; beating her breast till breast and heart were sore, wring-
ing her hands till she could no more strive. Then sighing
said : " Ah ! cruel, cruel death, the dismal, doleful cause of all
my sorrows, thou hast deprived me of my dearest lord. Since
loathsome air my vital spirits draw, that thou, to recompense
me for my loss, would strike that stroke which all my cares may
kill : let me not see to-morrow's light ; but make me cold as
this dead carcass that before me lies ; this true description of a
mortal man : —
" Whose deeds of wonder, passed and gone before,
Hath left him now at death's dark prison door."
Kissing his face with a farewell of tears, she leaves the body
for the grave to claim ; and from that place she bears as sad a
soul as any of her sex on that occasion was ever known to do ;
her real grief soon sending her to her departed lord : living
but fifteen days after his death, and then, through extreme
sorrow, followed him.
86 ROBERT THE DEVIL.
ROBERT THE DEVIL.
(Old English Romance.)
[(( It is not to be sapposed that there was any historical foundation for the
legend. Robert the Devil has been identified with the Norman Robert I., the
Magnificent, who died in 1035 ; also with Robert 11., Courte-Heuse, son of
William the Conqueror, who died in 1184. Le H^richer has found him in the
Norman Rollo. Tr^butien says that there is nothing to hinder us from believing
that he was, not Duke, but Dux, son of an Aubert, who In the eighth century
ruled over the future Normandy. There is nothing to hinder us from so believ-
ing, because faith is free ; and there is nothing that will help to such belief. It
is a church legend shaped from popular ideas to enforce the efficacy of repent-
ance." — Hbnrt Morlet.]
Here heginneth the life of the most mischievous Robert the Devily
which was afterward called the servant of Q-od,
It befel in time past, there was a duke in Normandy,
which was called Oubert, the which duke was passing rich of
goods, and also virtuous of living, and loved and feared God
above all things, and did great almsdeeds, and exceeded all
others in righteousness and justice, and most chivalrous in
deeds of arms and notable acts doing.
How the dvke of Normandy with great royalty brought his wife^
the daughter of the duke of Bourgor^ [Burgundy\^ into Roan
[iJowen] in Normandy after he had married her.
After Ihat the aforesaid duke had married the said lady, he
brought her with a great company of barons, knights, and
ladies, with great triumph and glory, into the land of Nor-
mandy, and in the city of Roan, in the which city she was
honorably received and with great melody ; and there was
great amity between the Bourgonians aixd the Normans, which
I let pass for to come the sooner to my matter. The aforesaid
duke and duchess lived together the space of eighteen years
without any child. Whether it were God's will it should be
so, or it were through their own default, I cannot judge, for it
were better otherwhile that some people had no children, and
also it were better for the father and mother to get no children
ROBERT THE DEVIL. 87
than to lack of chastising, the children and father and mother
should all go to the devil : yet was this duke and duchess
devout people, which loved and feared God, and gave great
alms ; and what time this duke would meddle with his lady,
he ever prayed to God to send him a child, to honor and serve
God, and to multiply and fortify his lineage ; but neither with
prayer nor with ahnsdeeds, this good duke and duchess could
get no children.
How upon a time this duke and duchess walked alane^ sore com-
plaining the one to the other that they covld have no children
together.
Upon a time this duke anid duchess walked, and the duke
beg^ to show his mind to his lady, saying, ^^ Madam, we be
not fortunate, insomuch that we can get no children ; and they
that made the marriage between us both, they did great sin,
for I believe an ye had been given to another man, ye should
have had children, and I also if I had another lady." This
lady understood his saying : she answered softly, saying thus,
*^ Good lord, we must thank God of that which he sendeth us,
and take it patiently of whatsoever it be."
How Mohert the Devil was conceived^ and how his mother gave
him to the devil in his conception.
This duke upon a time rode out an hunting in a great anger
and pensiveness for thought that he could have no child, sore
complaining, saying to himself, I see many women have many
fair children in which they joy greatly, by which I see well
that I am hated of God, and marvel it is that I fall not in
despair, for it grieveth me so sore at my heart that I can get no
children. The devil, which is alway ready to deceive mankind,
tempted the good duke, and troubled his mind so that he wist
not what to do or say. Thus moved, he left his hunting and
went home to his palace, where he found his lady also vexed
and moved. As he came home he took her in his arms, and
kissed her, and did his will with her, saying his prayers to our
Lord in this wise : " O I Lord Jesu, I beseech thee that I may
get a child, at this hour, by the which thou mayst be honored
and served." But the lady being so sore moved, spake thus
foolishly, and said : *^ In the devil's name be it, insomuch as
88 ROBERT THE DEVIL.
God hath not the power that I conceive ; and if I be conceived
with child in thU hour, I give it to the devil, body and soul."
And this same hour that this duke and duchess were thus
moved, the said lady was conceived with a man child, which in
his life wrought much mischief, as ye shall hear after this, but
afterwards he was converted, and did great penance, and died
a holy man, as is showed hereafter.
How Robert the Devil was hom^ and what great pain his mother
suffered in his birth.
This lady could not be delivered without great pain, for
she travailed more than a month ; and if good prayers had
not been, and almsdeeds, good works, and great penance done
for her, she had died of child. When this child was born, the
sky waxed as dark as though it had been night, as it is showed
in old chronicles, that it thundered and lightened so sore, that
men thought the firmament had been open, and all the world
should have perished. And there blew so much wind out of
the four quarters of the world, and waa such storm and
tempest, that all the house trembled so sore, that it shook a
great piece of it to the earth, and in so much that all they that
were in the house weened that the world had been at
an end, and that they, with the house and all, should have
sunken. But in short time it pleased God that all this trouble
ceased, and the weather cleared up, and the child was brought
to church to be christened, which was named Robert. This
child was large of stature at his birth as he had been a year old,
whereof the people had great wonder ; and as this child was a
bearing to the church to be christened and home again, it never
ceased crying and howling. And in short space he had long
teeth wherewith he bit the nurse's paps in such wise, that there
was no woman durst give him suck, for he bit oflf the heads of
their breasts ; wherefore they were fain to give him suck and to
bring him up with an horn. And when he was twelve months
old, he could 8i>eak and go alone better than other children
that were three year old. And the elder that this child Robert
waxed, more cursted ; and there was no man that could rule
him ; and when he found or could come by any children, he
smote and bit and cast stones at them, and brake their arms and
legs and necks, and scrat out their eyes out of their heads, and
therein was all bis delight and pleasure.
ROBERT THE DEVIL. 89
Haw all the children with one assent named this child Robert
the Devil.
This child within few years grew marvelously, and more
and more increased of all, and boldness, and shrewdness, and
set by no correction, but was ever smiting, and tasting, and
cursed deeds doing. And sometime there gathered together
all the boys of the street to fight with him, but when they see
him they durst not abide him, but cried one to another, " Here
Cometh the wode [mad] Robert I " Another many cried, " Here
cometh the cursed mad Robert I " and some cried, " Here cometh
Robert the Devil ! " and thus crying they voided all the streets,
for they durst not abide and look him in the face, and forthwith
the children that knew him with one assent called him Robert
the Devil, which name he kept during his life, and shall do as
long as the world standeth. When this child was seven years
old or thereabout, the duke his father, seeing and considering
his wicked condition, called him and said unto liim thus, " My
son, methink it necessary and time for me to get you a wise
schoolmaster, to learn virtues and doctrine, for ye be of age
enough" ; and when the duke had thus said, he betook his son
to a good, discreet, and wise schoolmaster to rule and teach him
all good conditions and manners.
Sow Robert killed his schoolmaster.
It fell upon a day that his schoolmaster should chastise
Robert, and would have made him to have left his cursed con-
ditions ; but Robert gat a murderer or bodkin, and thrust his
master in the belly that he fell down dead to the earth, and
Robert threw his book against the walls in despite of his
master, saying, " Thus now have I taught thee that never priest
nor clerk shall correct me, nor be my master." And from
thence forth there could be no master be found that was so bold
to take in hand to teach and correct this Robert, but were glad
to let him alone and have his own ways, and he put himself to
vice and mischief, and to no manner of virtue nor grace, nor
would he learn for no man living, but mocked both God and
holy church. And when he came to the church, and found the
priests and clerks singing God's service, he came privily behind
them, and cast ashes or dust in their mouths in despite of God.
And when he saw anybody in the church busy in their prayers,
he would come behind them and give them a sous in the neck
40 ROBERT THE DEVIL.
that their heads kissed the ground, insomuch that everybody
cursed him for his wicked deeds doing. And the duke his
father, seeing his mischievous disposition and cursed life of his
son, he was so angry with himself that he wished himself many
times dead and out of the world. And the duchess in likewise
was greatly moved and much sorrowful by cause of the mis-
chievous life of her son, saying in this wise : " My lord, our son
is now of sufficient age and able to bear arms, wherefore methink
it were best that ye made him knight, if then he would remember
the order of knighthood whereby he might leave his wickedness."
The duke was herewithal content. And Robert had at that time
but eighteen years of age.
[He b knighted, but kills and maims a nnmber of the knights in the joust,
and breaks up the feast]
How Robert the Devil rode abovt the country of Normandy^ robbing^
stealing^ murdering^ and burning churches^ abbeys^ and other
holy places of religion^ and forcing of women.
Then when Robert see there was no man more left in the
field, and that he could do no more mischief there, then he took
his horse with the spurs to seek his adventures, and began to
do every day more harm than the other one, for he forced and
ravished maidens and wives without number, he killed and mur-
dered so much people that it was pity ; also he robbed churches,
abbeys, hermitages, and farms ; there was not an abbey in all the
country but he robbed and pilled them. These wicked deeds
of Robert came to the ears of the good duke, and all they that
were thus robbed and rebuked [buffeted] came to complain of
the great outrage and suppression done by Robert, and still was
doing throughout all the country. Thus lay they grievously
complaining before the good duke, that great pity it was there-
for to see the good duke hearing the grievous and lamentable
complaints of the great murder done by Robert his son through-
out all the land of Normandy. Then his heart was suppressed
with so great sorrow and thought, that the salt tears burst out
of his eyes, and he wept tenderly and said : " O right wise God,
creator of heaven and earth, I have so many times prayed ye to
send me a child, and all my delight was to have a son, to the
intent that I might of him have great joy and solace. And
now have I one, the which doth my heart so much pain, sorrow,
and thought, that I wot in no wise what to begin, nor do, nor
ROBERT THE DEVIL. 41
say thereto ; but good Lord only I cry upon thee for help, and
remedy, to be a little released of my pain and sorrow.'*
Hoto the duke sent out men of arms for to take Robert his son, which
Robert took them all^ and put out their eyes in despite of his
father^ and sent them so home again.
There was a knight of the duke's house, which perceived
that this good duke was very sorrowful and pensive, and knew
no remedy ; then this knight spake and said to him, ^^ My
lord, I would advise you to send for your son Robert, and let
him be brought to your presence, and there before your nobles,
and next friends to rebuke him, and then command him to
leave his cursed life, and if he will not, ye to do justice upon
him as on a strange man." Hereto the duke consented, and
thought the knight gave him good counsel ; and incontinent
sent out men to seek Robert, and in any wise they were to
bring him to his presence. This Robert, hearing of the com-
plaints made of all the people upon him unto his father, and
that his father had sent out men to take him, wherefore all
them that he could get, he put out their eyes, and so he took
the men that his father sent for him, and put out their eyes, in
despite of his father. And when he had thus blinded his
father's servants, he said .to them in mocking, " Sirs, now shall
ye sleep the better ; go now home to my father, and tell him
that I set little by him, and because he sendeth you to bring
me to him, therefore to his despite I have put out your eyes."
These poor servants which the duke had sent for Robert his
son, came home with great pain and in great heaviness, saying
thus: " O good lord, see how your son Robert that ye did send
us for, hath arrayed us, and blinded us." The good duke see-
ing his men in this case, he waxed very angry, and full of ire,
and began to compass in his mind how and by what means he
might come by to take Robert his son.
How the duke of Normandy made a proclamation throughout his
lande^ how men should take Robert his son^ mth all his com-
pany^ and bring them every one to prison.
Then spake a wise lord, saying thus : " My lord, take no
more thought, for ye shall never see the day that Robert your
son will come in your presence, insomuch as he hath done so
great and grievous offenses to your commons, and your own
42 ROBERT THE DEVIL.
messengers that ye send for him. But it were of necessity for
you to correct and punish him for his great offenses, that he
daily doth, and hath done, for we find it written, that the law
bindeth you thereto." The duke, willing to accomplish the
counsel of his lords, sent out messengers in all haste, unto all
the ports, good towns, and barons, throughout all his dukedom,
commanding on his behalf all shrines, or other oflBcers, to do
their uttermost diligence to take Robert his son prisoner, and to
hold and keep him surely in prison with all his company and
affinity. When Robert heard of this proclamation, he with all
his company were sore afraid of the duke's malice ; and when
Robert see this, he was almost out of his wit for wood (insane)
anger, and wlietted his teeth like a boar, and sware a great oatli^
saying thus, " that he would have open war with his father,
and subdue and spill (destroy) all his lordship."
How Robert made him a strong house in a dark thick wilderness^
where he wrought mischief without comparison and above all
measure or natural reason.
Then when Robert heard and knew of the aforesaid things,
he let make in a thick wild forest a strong house, where in he
made his dwelling place, and this place was wild and strong,
and more meeter for wild beasts than for any people to abide
in ; and there Robert assembled and gathered for his company,
all the most mischievous and falsest thieves that he could find
or hear of in his father's land, — towit, murderers, thieves,
street robbers, rebels, burners of churches and houses,
forcers of women, robbers of churches, and the most wickedest
and cursedest thieves that were under the sun, Robert had
gathered to do him service ; whereof he was captain. And in
the foresaid wilderness, Robert with his company did so much
mischief, that no tongue can tell. He murdered merchants
and all that came by the way, no man durst look out nor come
abroad for fear of Robert and his company, of whom every
man was afraid ; for they robbed all the country, insomuch that
no man durst look out, but they were killed of Robert or his
men. Also poor pilgrims that went on pilgrimage were mur-
dered by Robert and his company, insomuch, that every man
fled from them, like as the sheep fled from the wolfe : for they
were as wolves waring, slaying all that they could come by, and
thus, Robert and his company led an ungracious life. Also he
ROBERT THE DEVIL. 48
was a great glutton of eating and drinking, and never fasting,
though it were never so great a fasting day. In Lent, or on
Ymber days, he ate flesh, as well on Fridays as on Sundays ;
but after he had done all this mischief, he suffered great pain,
as hereafter ye shall hear.
Haw Robert the Devil rode to Mb mother^ the duchess of Normandy^
being in the castle of Barques : she was come to a feast.
Robert rode so far and so long, that he came to the castle of
Darques ; but he met before with a shepherd which had told
him that his mother the duchess should come of the said castle
to dinner, and so he rode thither. But when Robert came
there, and the people see him come, they ran away from him,
like the hare from the hounds ; one ran and shut him in
his house, another ran into the church for fear. Robert seeing
this, that all the people fled from him for fear, he began to sigh
in his heart, and said to himself : " O ! Almighty God, how
may this be, that every man thus fleeth from me I Now I per-
ceive that I am the most mischievous and the most cursedest
wretch of this world, for I sent better to be a Jew or a Saracen,
than any Christian man, and I see well that I am the worst of all
ill. Alas ! " said Robert the Devil, " I may well hate and curse
mine ungracious and cursed life, wherefore I am worthy to be
hated of God and the world." In this mind and heaviness
came Robert to the castle gate, and lighted down from his
horse, but there was no man that durst abide about him, nor
come nigh him to hold his horse ; and he had no servant to
serve him, but let his horse stand there at the gate, and drew
out his sword, which was all bloody, and incontinent took the
way unto the hall, where the duchess, his mother, was. When
the duchess saw Robert, her son, come in this wise, with a
bloody sword in his hand, she was sore afraid, and would have
fled away from him, for she knew well his conditions. Robert,
seeing that everybody did flee from him, and that his own
mother would have fled in likewise, he called unto her piteously
afar, and said, " Sweet lady mother, be not afraid of me, but
stand still till I have spoken with you, and flee not from me.
in the worship of Christ's passion 1 *' Then Robert's heart
being full of thought and repentance, went nigher her, saying
thus : " Dear lady mother, I pray and require you to tell me
how and by what manner or whereby cometh it that I am so
44 BOBERT THE DEVIL.
vicious and cursed, for I know well I have it other by you or
of my father ; wherefore incontinent I heartily desire and pray
you that ye show me the truth hereof/'
How the Duche%B desired Mohert her ton to unite off her head,
and then she told him how the had given him to the devil in
hie conception.
The duchess greatly marveled when she heard her son
speak these words ; and piteously weeping, with a sorrowful
heart, saying thus to him, ^^ My dear son, I require you heartily
that ye will smite oflf my head." This said the lady for very
gpreat pity that she had upon him, for because she had given
him to the devil in his conception. Robert answered his
mother with an heavy and piteous cheer, saying thus, *^ O ! dear
mother, why should I do so, that so much mischief have done,
and this should be the worst deed that ever I did ; but I pray
you to show me that I desire to wete [know] of you." Then
the duchess, hearing his hearty desire, told unto him the cause
why he was so vicious and full of mischief, and how she gave
him to the devil in his conception, herself mispraising, said
thus unto Robert : ^^ O I son, I am the most unfortunate woman
Uving. and I knowledge that it is aU my fault that ye be so
cursed and wicked a liver."
How Mohert the Devil took leave of hie mother.
Robert, hearing his mother's saying, he fell down to the
earth into a swoon, for very great sorrow, and lay still a long
while, then he moved again and came to himself and beg^
bitterly to weep, and complain, saying thus : " The fiends of
hell be with great diligence to apply them to get and have my
body and soul, but now from this time forth, I forsake them
and all their work, and will never do more harm than good,
and amend my life and leave my sins and do penance there-
fore." Then after this, Robert spake to his mother, the which
was in great sorrow, and heaviness, saying thus : ^^ O most
reverent lady mother, I heartily beseech and require you that
it will please you to have me recommended unto my father ;
for I will take the way to Rome to be assoiled of my sins,
which are innumerable, and too abominable to recount. There-
fore I will never sleep one night there I sleep another, till I
come to Rome and God will."
A DANISH BARROW ON THE DEVON COAST. 46
A DANISH BARROW ON THE DEVON COAST.
Bt FRANCIS TUKt^EB PALGRAVE.
[1824-
Lis stilly old Dane^ below thy heap I
A sturdy back and sturdy limb^
Whoe'er he was, I warrant him
Upon whose mound the single sheep
Browses and tinkles in the sun,
Within the narrow vale alone.
Lie still, old Dane ! this restful scene
Suits well thy centuries of sleep ;
The soft brown roots above thee creeps
The lotus flaunts his ruddy sheen.
And — vain memento of the spot—
The turquoise^yed forget-me-not
Lie still ! Thy mother-land herself
Would know thee not again : no more
The raven from the northern shore
Hails the bald crew to push for pelf.
Through flre and blood and slaughtered kings,
'Neath the black terror of his wings.
And thou — thy very name is lost!
The peasant only knows that here
Bold Alfred scooped thy flinty bier.
And prayed a f oeman's prayer, and tost
His auburn head, and said, "One more
Of England's foes guards England's shore '' ;
And turned and passed to other feats,
And left thee in thine iron robe,
To circle with the circling globe;
While Time's corrosive dewdrop eats
The giant warrior to a crust
Of earth in earth, and rust in rust.
So lie ; and let the children play
And sit like flowers upon thy grave
And crown with flowers, — that hardly have
A briefer blooming-tide than they, —
By hurrying years urged on to rest,
As thou within thy mother's breast
46 THE PIED PIPER OF HAMELIN.
THE PIED PIPER OF HAMELIN.
Bt ROBERT BROWNING.
[Robert Browning, English poet, was born in London, May 7, 1812 ; mar-
ried Elizabeth Barrett in 1846, and lived in Italy the greater part of his life after-
ward. His Urst considerable poem was ** Pauline ** (1888, anonymous). There
followed, among others, "Paracelsus," •* Strafford," ♦» Bordello," ** Bells and
Pome^in^nates " (a collection including **Pippa Passes," "King Victor and
King Charles," "Colombe's Birthday," **The Return of the Druses," "A Blot
in the 'Scutcheon," ** Luria," and ** A Soul's Tragedy " ), »* Men and Women,"
"Dramatis Personaj," '*The Ring and the Book," ** Balaustion's Adventure,"
"Fifine at the Fair," "Red Cotton Nightcap Country." He died in Venice,
December 12, 1880.]
Hamelin Town's in Brunswick,
By famous Hanover city ;
The river Weser, deep and wide,
Washes its wall on the southern side ;
A pleasanter spot you never spied ;
But, when begins my ditty,
Almost five hundred years ago,
To see the townsfolk suffer so
From vermin was a pity.
Rats!
They fought the dogs, and killed the cats,
And bit the babies in the cradles.
And ate the cheeses out of the vats.
And licked the soup from the cook's own ladles,
Split open the kegs of salted sprats.
Made nests inside men's Sunday hats,
And even spoiled the women's chats.
By drowning their speaking
With shrieking and squeaking
In fifty different sharps and flats.
At last the people in a body
To the Townhall came flocking:
"'Tis clear," cried they, " our Mayor's a noddy;
And as for our Corporation — shocking
To think we buy gowns lined with ermine
For dolts that can't or won't determine
What's best to rid us of our vermin I
You hope, because you're old and obese^
To find in the furry civic robe ease ?
THE PIED PIPER OF HAMELIN. 47
Rouse up, sirs ! Give your brains a racking
To find the remedy we're lacking,
Or, sure as fate, we'll send you packing ! "
At this the Mayor and Corporation
Quaked with a mighty consternation.
An hour they sate in council.
At length the Mayor broke silence :
^^ For a guilder I'd my ermine gown sell ;
I wish I were a mile hence I
It's easy to bid one rack one's brain —
I'm sure my poor head aches again
I've scratched it so, and all in vain.
Oh for a trap, a trap, a trap ! "
Just as he said this, what should hap
At the chamber door but a gentle tap ?
" Bless us," cried the Mayor, " what's that ? "
(With the Corporation as he sat.
Looking little though wondrous fat ;
Nor brighter was his eye, nor moister,
Than a too long opened oyster,
Save when at noon his paunch grew mutinous
For a plate of turtle green and glutiuous),
" Only a scraping of shoes on the mat ?
Anything like the sound of a rat
Makes my heart go pitapat ! —
" Come in ! " — the Mayor cried, looking bigger
Ajid in did come the strangest figure.
His queer long coat from heel to head
Was half of yellow and half of red ;
And he himself was tall and thin.
With sharp blue eyes, each like a pin.
And light loose hair, yet swarthy skin,
No tuft on cheek nor beard on chin,
But lips where smiles went out and in —
There was no guessing his kith and kin I
And nobody could enough admire
The tall man and his quaint attire :
Quoth one : " It's as my great-grandsire,
Starting up at the Trump of Doom's tone,
Had walked this way from his painted tombstone."
He advanced to the council table :
And, " Please your honors," said he, " I'm able.
By means of a secret charm, to draw
mummmmmmmmm
48 THE PIED PIPER OF HAMELIN.
All creatures living beneath the sun,
That creep, or swim, or fly, or run,
After me so as you never saw !
And I chiefly use my charm
On creatures that do people harm.
The mole, and toad, and newt, and viper ;
And people call me the Pied Piper."
(And here they noticed round his neck
A scarf of red and yellow stripe,
To match with his coat of the selfsame check ;
And at the scarf's end hung a pipe ;
And his Angers, they noticed, were ever straying
As if impatient to be playing
Upon this pipe, as low it dangled
Over his vesture so old-fangled.)
" Yet,'' said he, " poor piper as I am,
In Tartary I freed the Cham,
Last June, from his huge swarms of gnats ;
I eased in Asia the Nizam
Of a monstrous brood of vampyre bats :
And, as for what your brain bewilders,
If I can rid your town of rats
Will you give me a thousand guilders ? "
" One ? fifty thousand ! " — was the exclamation
Of the astonished Mayor and Corporation.
Into the street the Piper stept,
Smiling first a little smile.
As if he knew what magic slept
In his quiet pipe the while ;
Then, like a musical adept.
To blow the pipe his lips he wrinkled.
And green and blue his sharp eyes twinkled
Like a candle flame where salt is sprinkled ;
And ere three shrill notes the pipe uttered,
You heard as if an army muttered ;
And the muttering grew to a grumbling ;
And the grumbling grew to a mighty rumbling ;
And out of the house the rats came tumbling.
Great rats, small rats, lean rats, brawny ratSy
Brown rats, black rats, gray rats, tawny ratSi
Grave old plodders, gay young friskers,
Fathers, mothers, uncles, cousins.
Cocking tails and pricking whiskers.
Families by tens and dozens,
The Pied Piper of Hanielin
After the etching by R. W. Macbeth
ji- :;.w..-:*;^^^feiaKr<g|
^^m
^^^^m
^^^^Sm
..■■.•^r^l
8BiBfcSBff^sSM& <
1
'VKis&r>9lL8H^S8^^^Hl ''
^^M
THE PIED FIPEB OF HAMELUl 49
Brothers, sisters, husbands, wives —
Followed the Piper for their lives.
From street to street he piped advancing,
And step for step they followed dancing.
Until they came to the river Weser
Wherein all plunged and perished
— Save one, who, stout as Julius Caesar,
Swam across and lived to carry
(As he the manuscript he cherished)
To Rat land home his commentary,
Which was, ** At the first shrill notes of the pipe,
I heard a sound as of scraping tripe,
And putting apples, wondrous ripe.
Into a cider press's gripe ;
And a moving away of pickle-tub boards.
And a leaving ajar of conserve cupboards.
And a drawing the corks of train-oil flasks.
And a breaking the hoops of butter casks ;
And it seemed as if a voice
(Sweeter far than by harp or by psaltery,
Is breathed) called out, Oh ! rats, rejoice I
The world is grown to one vast drysaltery !
So munch on, crunch on, take your nuncheon,
Breakfast, supper, dinner, luncheon !
And just as a bulky sugar puncheon,
All ready staved, like a great sun shone
Glorious scarce an inch before me,
Just as methought it said, come, bore me I
— I found the Weser rolling o'er me."
You should have heard the Hamelin people
Ringing the bells till they rocked the steeple ;
" Go," cried the Mayor, " and get long poles I
Poke out the nests and block up the holes I
Consult with carpenters and builders.
And leave in our town not even a trace
Of the rats ! " — when suddenly up the face
Of the Piper perked in the market place.
With a, " First, if you please, my thousand guilders I ^
A thousand guilders I The Mayor looked blue ;
So did the Corporation too.
For council dinners made rare havock
With Claret, Moselle, Vin-de-Grave, Hook ;
VOL. IX. — 4
60 THE PIED PIPER OF HAMELIN.
And half the money wonld replenish
Their cellar's biggest butt with Rhenish.
To pay this sum to a wandering fellow
With a gypsy coat of red and yellow I
'^ Beside/' quoth the Mayor, with a knowing wink^
'* Our business was done at the river's brink ;
We saw with our eyes the vermin sink,
And what's dead can't come to life, I think.
So, friend, we're not the folks to shrink
From the duty of giving you something to drink,
And a matter of money to put in your poke ;
But, as for the guilders, what we spoke
Of them, as you very well know, was in joke.
Beside, our losses have made us thrifty ;
A thousand guilders ! Come, take fifty I ''
The piper's face fell, and he cried,
" No trifling ! I can't wait, beside !
I've promised to visit by dinner time
Bagdat, and accepted the prime
Of the Head Cook's pottage, all he's rich in,
For having left, in the Caliph's kitchen.
Of a nest of scorpions no survivor —
With him I proved no bargain driver.
With you, don't think I'll bate a stiver !
And folks who put me in a passion
May find me pipe to another fashion."
" How ? " cried the Mayor, " d'ye think I'll brook
Being worse treated than a Cook ?
Insulted by a lazy ribald
With idle pipe and vesture piebald ?
You threaten us, fellow ? Do your worst.
Blow your pipe there till you burst ! "
Once more he stept into the street ;
And to his lips again
Laid his long pipe of smooth straight cane;
And ere he blew three notes (such sweet
Soft notes as yet musicians cunning
Never gave the enraptured air)
There was a rustling, that seemed like a bustling
Of merry crowds justling, at pitching and hustling.
Small feet were pattering, wooden shoes clattering,
THE PIED PIPER OF HAMELIN. 61
Little hands clapping, and little tongues chattering,
And, like fowls in a farmyard when barley is scatteringi
Out came the children running.
All the little boys and girls,
With rosy cheeks and flaxen curls,
And sparkling eyes and teeth like pearls,
Tripping and skipping, ran merrily after
The wonderful music with shouting and laughter.
The Mayor was dumb, and the Council stood
As if they were changed into blocks of wood,
Unable to move a step, or cry
To the children merrily skipping by —
And could only follow with the eye
That joyous crowd at the Piper's back.
But how the Mayor was on the rack,
And the wretched Council's bosoms beat.
As the Piper turned from the High Street
To where the Weser rolled its waters
Right in the way of their sons and daughters I
However he turned from South to West,
And to Koppelberg Hill his steps addressed,
And after him the children pressed ;
Great was the joy in every breast.
" He never can cross that mighty top I
He's forced to let the piping drop,
And we shall see our children stop ! "
When lo, as they reached the mountain's side,
A wondrous portal opened wide.
As if a cavern was suddenly hollowed ;
And the Piper advanced and the children followed,
And when all were in to the very last.
The door in the mountain side shut fast.
Did I say all ? No ! one was lame.
And could not dance the whole of the way ;
And in after years, if you would blame
His sadness, he was used to say : —
" It's dull in our town since my playmates left ;
I can't forget that I'm bereft
Of all the pleasant sights they see.
Which the Piper also promised me ;
For he led us, he said, to a joyous land,
Joining the town and just at hand.
Where waters gushed and fruit trees grew,
And flowers put forth a fairer hue.
And everything was strange and new;
The Pied Piper of Hamelin
After the etching by R. W. Macbeth
J
•I
THE PIED PIPER OF HAMSLIN. 49
Brothers^ sisters, husbands, wives —
Followed the Piper for their lives.
From street to street he piped advancing,
And step for step they followed dancing,
Until they came to the river Weser
Wherein all plunged and perished
— Save one, who, stout as Julius Caesar,
Swam across and lived to carry
(As he the manuscript he cherished)
To Rat land home his commentary,
Which was, '^ At the first shrill notes of the pipe,
I heard a sound as of scraping tripe.
And putting apples, wondrous ripe.
Into a cider press's gripe ;
And a moving away of pickle-tub boards.
And a leaving ajar of conserve cupboards.
And a drawing the corks of train-oil flasks.
And a breaking the hoops of butter casks ;
And it seemed as if a voice
(Sweeter far than by harp or by psaltery,
Is breathed) called out, Oh ! rats, rejoice I
The world is grown to one vast drysaltery !
So munch on, crunch on, take your nuncheon.
Breakfast, supper, dinner, luncheon !
And just as a bulky sugar puncheon,
All ready staved, like a great sun shone
Glorious scarce an inch before me,
Just as methought it said, come, bore me I
— I found the Weser rolling o'er me."
You should have heard the Hamelin people
Ringing the bells till they rocked the steeple ;
" Go," cried the Mayor, " and get long poles I
Poke out the nests and block up the holes I
Consult with carpenters and builders.
And leave in our town not even a trace
Of the rats ! " — when suddenly up the face
Of the Piper perked in the market place.
With a, "First, if you please, my thousand guilders I '^
A thousand guilders I The Mayor looked blue ;
So did the Corporation too.
For council dinners made rare havock
With Claret, Moselle, Vin-de-Grave, Hook 5
VOL. IX. — 4
60 THE PIED PIPER OF HAMELIN.
And half the money wonld replenish
Their cellar's biggest butt with Rhenish.
To pay this sum to a wandering fellow
With a gypsy coat of red and yellow !
" Beside," quoth the Mayor, with a knowing wink^
'' Our business was done at the river's brink ;
We saw with our eyes the vermin sink.
And what's dead can't come to life, I think.
So, friend, we're not the folks to shrink
From the duty of giving you something to drink,
And a matter of money to put in your poke ;
But, as for the guilders, what we spoke
Of them, as you very well know, was in joke.
Beside, our losses have made us thrifty ;
A thousand guilders ! Come, take fifty ! "
The piper's face fell, and he cried,
*' No trifling ! I can't wait, beside !
I've promised to visit by dinner time
Bagdat, and accepted the prime
Of the Head Cook's pottage, all he's rich in.
For having left, in the Caliph's kitchen.
Of a nest of scorpions no survivor —
With him I proved no bargain driver.
With you, don't think I'll bate a stiver !
And folks who put me in a passion
May find me pipe to another fashion."
" How? " cried the Mayor, "d'ye think I'll brook
Being worse treated than a Cook ?
Insulted by a lazy ribald
With idle pipe and vesture piebald ?
You threaten us, fellow ? Do your worst.
Blow your pipe there till you burst ! "
Once more he stept into the street ;
And to his lips again
Laid his long pipe of smooth straight cane;
And ere he blew three notes (such sweet
Soft notes as yet musicians cunning
Never gave the enraptured air)
There was a rustling, that seemed like a bustling
Of merry crowds justling, at pitching and hustling,
Small feet were pattering, wooden shoes clattering,
THE PIED PIPER OF HAMELIN. 61
Little hands clapping, and little tongues chattering,
And, like fowls in a farmyard when barley is scattering^
Out came the children running.
All the little boys and girls,
With rosy cheeks and flaxen curls,
And sparkling eyes and teeth like pearls,
Tripping and skipping, ran merrily after
The wonderful music with shouting and laughter.
The Mayor was dumb, and the Council stood
As if they were changed into blocks of wood,
Unable to move a step, or cry
To the children merrily skipping by —
And could only follow with the eye
That joyous crowd at the Piper's back.
But how the Mayor was on the rack,
And the wretched Council's bosoms beat.
As the Piper turned from the High Street
To where the Weser rolled its waters
Right in the way of their sons and daughters !
However he turned from South to West,
And to Koppelberg Hill his steps addressed,
And after him the children pressed ;
Great was the joy in every breast.
" He never can cross that mighty top I
He's forced to let the piping drop,
And we shall see our children stop ! "
When lo, as they reached the mountain's side,
A wondrous portal opened wide.
As if a cavern was suddenly hollowed ;
And the Piper advanced and the children followed,
And when all were in to the very last.
The door in the mountain side shut fast.
Did I say all ? No ! one was lame.
And could not dance the whole of the way ;
And in after years, if you would blame
His sadness, he was used to say : —
" It's dull in our town since my playmates left ;
I can't forget that I'm bereft
Of all the pleasant sights they see.
Which the Piper also promised me ;
For he led us, he said, to a joyous land,
Joining the town and just at hand.
Where waters gushed and fruit trees grew,
And flowers put forth a fairer hue.
And everything was strange and new;
68 THE PIED PIPER OF HAMELIN.
The sparrows were brighter than peacocks here,
And their dogs outran our fallow deer,
And honeybees had lost their stings ;
And horses were born with eagle's wings ;
And just as I became assured
My lame foot would be speedily cured,
The music stopped and I stood still,
And found myself outside the Hill,
Left alone against my will.
To go now limping as before,
And never hear of that country more ! *'
Alas, alas for Hamelin !
There came into many a burgher's pate
A text which says, that Heaven's Gate
Opes to the Rich at as easy rate
As the needle's eye takes a camel in !
The Mayor sent East, West, North, and South
To offer the Piper by word of mouth,
Wherever it was men's lot to find him.
Silver and gold to his heart's content,
If he'd only return the way he went.
And bring the children behind him.
But when they saw t'was a lost endeavor.
And Piper and dancers were gone forever.
They made a decree that lawyers never
Should think their records dated duly
If, after the day of the month and year,
These words did not as well appear,
^* And so long after what happened here
On the twenty-second of July,
Thirteen hundred and seventy-six : "
And the better in memory to fix
The place of the Children's last retreat.
They called it, the Pied Piper's street —
Where any one playing on pipe or tabor.
Was sure for the future to lose his labor.
Nor suffered they hostelry or tavern
To shock with mirth a street so solenm ;
But opposite the place of the cavern
They wrote the story on a column.
And on the great church window painted
The same, to make the world acquainted
How their children were stolen away ;
And there it stands to this very day.
And I must not omit to say
HARALD HAARFAGER'S SAGA. 58
That in Transylvania there's a tribe
Of alien people that ascribe
The outlandish ways and dress
On which their neighbors lay such stress
To their fathers and mothers having risen
Out of some subterraneous prison,
Into which they were trepanned
Long time ago in a mighW band,
Out of Ham^lin town in Brunswick land.
But how or why they don't understand.
HARALD HAARFAGER'S SAGA.
By 8N0RR0 STURLESON.
(From the ** Heimskringla.**)
[Snorro (or Snorri) Sturlbson (or Sturlason), the greatest of Icelandic
men of letters, and a great man of affairs as well, was bom 1178, of a very old
family claiming royal descent. His tutor was grandson of the compiler of the
** Elder Edda,*^ and he became deeply learned in Scandinayian antiquities
and literature. Marrying an heiress and shortly losing his father, he became
while young one of the richest and most influential men on the island, and was
elected chief magistrate. His ability and profundity were conspicuous, his
greed and intriguing ambition alleged as not less so ; he drew on himself impla-
cable feuds in which some of his own family took part against him, and finally
embroiled himself with Hakon king of Norway, who sent orders to have him
arrested or assassinated. The latter was done in 1241. He wrote panegyrical
court poems said to be good ; but his great work is the ** Heimskringla ** (World
Circle), a history of the kings of Norway down to 1177. He is belieyed also to
have shared in collecting the songs of the ** Elder Edda," and contributed to the
Younger Edda."]
t4
Habald was but ten years old when he succeeded his father
[Halfdan the Black], He became a stout, strong, and comely
man, and withal prudent and manly. His mother's brother,
Guttorm, was regent over the court and country, and commander
of the men-at-arms of the court. After Halfdan the Black's
death, many chiefs coveted the dominions he had left. Among
these. King Gandalf was the first ; then Hogne and Frode, sons
of Eystein king of Hedemark ; and also Hogne Karason came
from Ringerige. Hako, the son of Gand^f, began with an
expedition of three hundred men against Westfold, marched
round the head of and over some vaUeys, and expected to come
suddenly upon King Harald ; while his father Gandalf sat at
64
HARALD ElAARFAGEE'S SAGA.
home with his ftrmy and prepared to croBS over the 6ord into
Westfold. When Guttorm heard of this, he gathered an army,
and marched up the country with King Harald againat Hako.
They met in a valley in which they fought a great hattle, and
King tlarald waa victorioiiB ; and there fell King Hako and
most of his people. The place has since been called Hakodale,
Then King Harald and Guttorm turned back, hat they found
King Gandalf had come to Westfold. Tlie two armies marched
against each other, and met, and had s great battle ; ant) it
ended in King Gandalf flying, after leaving most of his men
dead on the spot, and in that state he came back to his kingdom.
Now when the sons of King Eystciu in Hedemark heard the
news, they expected the war would come upon them, and they
sent a message to Hogne Karason and to Herse Gudbrand, and
appointed a meeting with them at Ringaager in Hedemark.
After the battle, King Harald and Guttorm turned Itack, and
went with all the men they could gather through tlie forests
towards the Uplands. They found out where the Upland
kings had appointed their meeting-place, and came there about
the time of midnight, nithout the watt^hmen observing them
until their army was before the door of the liouse in which
Hogne Karason was, as well as that in which Gudbrand slept.
They set fire to both houses ; but King Eystein's sons slipped
out with their men, and fought for a while, until both Hogne
and Frode fell. After the fall of these four chiefs. King
Harald, by his relation Guttorra's success and power, sub-
dued Hedemark, Ringerige, Gudhrandsdal, Hadeland, Thoten,
Raumarige, and the whole northern part of Vingulmark. King
Harald and Guttorm had thereafter war with King Gandalf,
and fought several battles with him; and in the last of them
King Gandalf was slain, and King Harald took the whole of
his kingdom as far south as the Glommen.
King Harald sent his men to a girl called Gyda, a daughter
of King Eric of Hordaland, who was brought up as foster-child
in the house of a great bonder in Yalders. The king wanted
her for his concubine ; for she was a remarkably handsome girl,
but of high spirit withal. Now when the messengers came there
and delivered their errand to the girl, she answered that she
would not throw herself away even to take a king for her husband,
who had no greater kingdom to rule over than a few districts.
"And methinka,^' said she, "it is wonderful that no king here
in Norway will make the whole country subject to him, in the
HABALD HAARFAGER'S SAGA. 55
same way as Gorm the Old did in Denmark, or Eric at Upsal.''
The messengers thought her answer was dreadfully haughty,
and asked what she thought would come of such an answer ; for
Harald was so mighty a man that his invitation was good enough
for her. But although she had replied to their errand differently
from what they wished, they saw no chance, on this occasion, of
taking her with them against her will, so they prepared to
return. When they were^ready, and the people followed them
out, Gyda said to the messengers, " Now tell to King Harald
these my words, — I will only agree to be his lawful wife upon
condition that he shall first, for my sake, subject to himself the
whole of Norway, so that he may rule over that kingdom as
freely and fully as King Eric over the Swedish dominions, or
King Gorm over Denmark ; for only then, methinks, can he
be called the king of a people."
Now came the messengers back to King Harald, bringing
him the words of the girl, and saying she was so bold and
foolish that she well deserved that the king should send a
greater troop of people for her, and inflict on her some disgrace.
Then answered the king : " This girl has not spoken or done so
much amiss that she should be punished, but rather she should
be thanked for her words. She has reminded me," said he,
"of something which it appears to me wonderful I did not
think of before. And now," added he, " I make the solemn
vow, and take God to witness, who made me and rules over all
things, that never shall I clip or comb my hair until I have
subdued the whole of Norway, with scatt, and duties, and
domains ; or if not, have died in the attempt." Guttorm
thanked the king warmly for his vow ; adding, that it was royal
work to fulfill royal words.
After this battle King Harald met no opposition in Norway,
for all his opponents and greatest enemies were cut off. But
some, and they were a great multitude, fled out of the country,
and thereby great districts were peopled. Jemteland and
Helsingland were peopled then, although some Norwegians had
already set up their habitation there. In the discontent that
King Harald seized on the lands of Norway, the out-countries
of Iceland and the Faroe Isle were discovered and peopled.
The Northmen had also a great resort to Shetland, and many
men left Norway, flying the country on account of King Harald,
and went on viking cruises into the West Sea. In winter they
56 HARALD HAABFAGER'S SAGA.
were in the Orkney Islands and Hebrides ; but marauded in
summer in Norway, and did great damage. Many, however,
were the mighty men who took service under King Harald,
and became his men, and dwelt in the land with him.
When King Harald had now become sole king over all
Norway, he remembered what that proud girl had said to him ;
so he sent men to her, and had her brought to him, and took
her to his bed. And these were their children : Alaf, she was
the eldest ; then was their son Hraereck ; then Sigtryg, Frode,
and Thorgils. King Harald had many wives and many children.
Among them he had one wife who was called Ragnhild the
Mighty, a daughter of King Eric, from Jutland ; and by her
he had a son, Eric Bloodyaxe. He was also married to Swan-
hilde, a daughter of Earl Eystein ; and their sons were Olaf
Geirstadaalf, Biorn, and Ragnar Ryskill. Lastly, King Harald
married Ashilda, a daughter of King Dagsson, up in Ringerige ;
and their children were Dag, Ring, Gudrod, Skiria, and Ingi-
gerd. It is told that King Harald put away nine wives when
he married Ragnhild the Mighty.
King Harald heard that the vikings, who were in the West
Sea in winter, plundered far and wide in the middle part of
Norway ; and therefore, every summer, he made an expedition
to search the isles and outskerries on the coast. Wheresoever
the vikings heard of him they all took to flight, and most of
them out into the open ocean. At last the king grew weary of
this work, and therefore, one summer he sailed with his fleet
right out into the West Sea. First he came to Shetland, and he
slew all the vikings who could not save themselves by flight.
Then King Harald sailed southward, to the Orkney Islands, and
cleared them all of vikings. Thereafter he proceeded to the
Hebrides, plundered there, and slew many vikings who formerly
had had men-at-arms under them. Many a battle was fought,
and King Harald was always victorious. He then plundered
far and wide in Scotland itself, and had a battle there. When
he was come westward as far as the Isle of Man, the report of
his exploits on the land had gone before him ; for all the inhabi-
tants had fled over to Scotland, and the island was left entirely
bare both of people and goods, so that King Harald and his
men made no booty when they landed. So says Hornklof : —
'< The wise, the noble king, great Harald,
Whose hand so freely scatters gold,
HARALD HAARFAGER'S SAGA. 67
Led many a northern shield to war
Against the town upon the shore.
The wolves soon gathered on the sand
Of that seashore ; for Harald's hand
The Scottish army drove away,
And on the coast left wolves a prey."
In this war fell Ivar, a son of Rognvald, earl of More ; and
King Harald gave Rognvald, as a compensation for the loss, the
Orkney and Shetland isles, when he sailed from the West ; but
Rognvald immediately gave both these countries to his brother
Sigurd, who remained behind them ; and King Harald, before
sailing eastward, gave Sigurd the earldom of them. Thorstein
the Red, a son of Olaf the White, and Aude the Wealthy,
entered into partnership with him ; and after plundering in
Scotland, they subdued Caithness and Sutherland, as far as
Ekjalsbakki. Earl Sigurd killed Melbrigda-Tonn, a Scotch
earl, and hung his head to his stirrup-leather ; but the calf of
his leg was scratched by the teeth, which were sticking out
from the head, and the wound caused inflammation in his leg, of
which the earl died, and he was laid in a mound at Ekjalsbakki.
His son, Guttorm, ruled over these countries for about a year
thereafter, and died without children. Many vikings, both Danes
and Northmen, set themselves down then in those countries.
After King Harald had subdued the whole land, he was one
day at a feast in More, given by Earl Rognvald. Then King
Harald went into a bath, and had his hair dressed. Earl Rogn-
vald now cut his hair, which had been uncut and uncombed for
ten years ; and therefore the king had been called Ugly Head.
But then Earl Rognvald gave him the distinguishing name —
Harald Haarfager ; and all who saw him agreed that there was
the greatest truth in that surname, for he had the most beauti-
ful and abundant head of hair.
Earl Rognvald was King Harald's dearest friend, and the
king had the greatest regard for him. He was married to
Hilda, a daughter of Rolf Naefia, and their sons were Rolf and
Thorer. Earl Rognvald had also three sons by concubines, —
the one called Hallad, the second Einar, the third Hrollaug ;
and all three were grown men when their brothers, bom in
marriage, were still children. Rolf became a great viking, and
was of so stout a growth that no horse could carry him, and
wheresoever he went he must go on foot ; and therefore he was
called Gange-Rolf . He plundered much in the East Sea. One
68
HAEALD HAARFAGER-S SAGA.
summer, as be was ooming from the eastward on a viking's
expedition, to the coast of Viken, he landed ttiere and made a
cattle foray. As King llarald happened joBt at that time to
be in Viken, he heard of it, and was in a great rage ; for he
bad forbid, by the greatest puniuhment, the plundering within
the bounds of the country. The king assembled a Thing, and
had Rolf declared an outlaw over all Norway, When KolPs
mother, Hilda, heard of it, she hastened to the king, and en-
treated peace for Rolf ; but the king was so enraged tliat her
entreaty was of no avail. Then Hilda spake these lines : —
" Think 'st thou, King Harald, in thy anger,
To drive away my brave Eolf Ganger,
Like a mad wolf, from out the land ?
Why, Harald, raise thy mighty hand?
Why banish I^'aefia's f^lant name-son,
The brother of brave udal-men ?
Why is thy cruelty ao fell ?
Bethink thee, monarch, it is ill
With such a wolf at wolf to play,
Who, driven to the wild woods away,
May make the king's best deer his prey."
Gange-Rolf went afterward over the sea to the West to the
Hebudes, or Sydreyar ; and at last farthtT west to Valland,
vrhere he plundered and subdued for himself a great earldom,
which he peopled with Northmen, from which that land is
called Normandy. Gange-Rolf's son was William, father to
Richard, and grandfather to another Richard, who was the
father of Richard Longspear. and grandfather of William the
Bastard, from whom all the following English kings are de-
scended. From Gange-Rolf also are descended the earls in
Normandy. Queen Kagnbild the Mighty lived three years
after she came to Norway ; and, after her death, her son and
King Haratd's was taken to Thorer Hroaldson, and Eric was
fostered by him.
King Harald, one winter, went about in guest-quarters in
Upland, and had ordered a Christmas feast to be prepared for
him at the farm Thopte. On Christmas eve, came Swase to the
door, just as the king went to table, and sent a message to the
king to ask if he would go out with him. The king was angry
at such a message, and the man who had brought it in took out
with him a reply of the king's displeasure. But Swase, not*
withstanding, desired that his message should be delivered a
HARALD HAARFAGER'S SAGA. 59
second time ; adding to it, that he was the Laplander whose
hut the king had promised to visit, and which stood on the
other side of the ridge. Now the king went out, and promised
to follow him, and went over to the ridge to his hut, although
some of his men dissuaded him. There stood Snaefrid, the
daughter of Swase, a most beautiful girl, and she filled a cup
of mead for the king. But he took hold both of the cup and
of her hand. Immediately it was as if a hot fire went through
his body ; and he wanted that very night to take her to his bed.
But Swase said that should not be unless by main force, if he
did not first make her his lawful wife. Now King Harald made
Snaefrid his lawful wife, and loved her so passionately that he
forgot his kingdom and all that belonged to his high dignity.
They had four sons : the one was Sigurd Rise ; the others,
Halfdan Haaleg, Gudrod Liome, and Rognvald Rettilbeen.
Thereafter Snaefrid died ; but her corpse never changed, but
was as fresh and red as when she lived. The king sat always
beside her, and thought she would come to life again. And so
it went on for three years that he was sorrowing over her death,
and the people over his delusion. At last Thorlief the Wise
succeeded, by his prudence, in curing him of his delusion by
accosting him thus : " It is nowise wonderful, king, that thou
grievest over so beautiful and noble a wife, and bestowest costly
coverlets and beds of down on her corpse, as she desired ; but
these honors fall short of what is due, as she still lies in the
same clothes. It would be more suitable to raise her, and
change her dress." As soon as the body was raised in the bed,
all sorts of corruption and foul smells came from it, and it was
necessary in all haste to gather a pile of wood and burn it ;
but before this could be done the body turned blue, and worms,
toads, newts, paddocks, and all sorts of ugly reptiles came out
of it, and it sank into ashes. Now the king came to his under-
standing again, threw the madness out of his mind, and after
that day ruled his kingdom as before. He was strengthened
and made joyful by his subjects, and his subjects by him, and
the country by both:
After King Harald had experienced the cunning of the Lap-
lander, he was so angry that he drove from him the sons he
had with her, and would not suffer them before his eyes. But
one of them, Gudrod Liome, went to his foster-father, Thiodolf ,
and asked him to go to the king, who was then in the Uplands ;
for Thiodolf was a great friend of the king. And so they went,
60 HARALD HAARFAGER'S SAGA.
and came to the king's house late in the evening, and sat down
together unnoticed near the door. The king walked up and
down the floor casting his eye along the benches ; for he had a
feast in the house, and the mead was just mixed. The king
then murmured out these lines : —
"Tell me, ye aged gray-haired heroes.
Who have come here to seek repose,
Wherefore must I so many keep
Of such a set, who, one and all.
Eight dearly love their souls to steep.
From morn till night, in the mead-bowl ? '*
Then Thiodolf replies : —
"A certain wealthy chief, I think,
Would gladly have had more to drink
With him, upon one bloody day.
When crowns were cracked in our sword-play."
Thiodolf then took off his hat, and the king recognized him,
and gave him a friendly reception. Thiodolf then begged the
king not to cast off his sons, " for they would with great pleas-
ure have taken a better family descent upon the mother's side,
if the king had given it to them." The king assented, and told
him to take Gudrod with him as formerly ; and he sent Halfdan
and Sigurd to Kingerige, and Rognvald to Hadeland, and all
was done as the king ordered. They grew up to be very clever
men, very expert in all exercises. In these times King Harald
sat in peace in the land, and the land enjoyed quietness and
good crops.
When King Harald was forty years of age, many of his sons
were well advanced ; and, indeed, they all came early to strength
and manhood. And now they began to take it ill that the king
would not give them any part of the kingdom, but put earls
into every district ; for they thought earls were of inferior
birth to them. Then Halfdan Haaleg and Gudrod Liome set
off one spring with a great force, and came suddenly upon Earl
Rognvald, earl of More, and surrounded the house in which he
was, and burnt him and sixty men in it. Thereafter Halfdan
took three long-ships, and fitted them out, and sailed into the
West Sea; but Gudrod set himself down in the land which
Rognvald formerly had. Now when King Harald heard this,
he set out with a great force against Gudrod, who had no other
HARALD HAARFAGER'S SAGA. 61
way left but to surrender, and he was sent to Agder. King
Harald then set Earl Rognvald's son Thorer over More, and
gave him his daughter Alof in marriage. Thorer, called the
Silent, got the same territory his father Rognvald had possessed.
Half dan Haaleg came very unexpectedly to Orkney, and Earl
Einar immediately fled ; but came back soon after, about har-
vest time, unnoticed by Halfdan. They met, and, after a short
battle, Halfdan fled the same night. Einar and his men lay all
night without tents, and when it was light in the morning they
searched the whole island, and killed every man they could lay
hold of. Then Einar said : " What is that I see upon the isle
of Ronaldsha ? Is it a man or a bird ? Sometimes it raises itself
up, and sometimes Ues down again." They went to it, and
found it was Halfdan Haaleg, and took him prisoner.
Earl Einar sang the following song the evening before he
went into this battle : —
" Where is the spear of Rollaug ? where
Is stout Rolf Ganger's bloody spear ?
I see them not ; yet never fear,
For Einar will not vengeance spare
Against his father^s murderers, though
Rollaug and Rolf are somewhat slow,
And silent Thorer sits and dreams
At home, beside the mead-bowl's streams.'*
Thereafter Earl Einar went up to Halfdan, and cut a spread
eagle upon his back, by striking his sword through his back into
his belly, dividing his ribs from the backbone down to his loins,
and tearing out his lungs ; and so Halfdan was killed. Einar
then sang : —
" For Rognvald's death my sword is red:
Of vengeance it cannot be said
That Einar' s share is left unsped.
So now, brave boys, let's raise a mound, —
Heap stones and gravel on the ground
O'er Halfdan's corpse : this is the way
We Norsemen our scatt duties pay."
When Harald was seventy years of age he begat a son with
a girl caUed Thora Mosterstang, because her family came from
Moeter. She was descended from good people, being connected
with Horda-Kaare ; and was, moreover, a very stout and remark-
ably handsome girl. She was called the king's servant girl ;
62 IIARALD IIAARFAGER-8 SAGA.
for at that time many vrere auljject to &or\-ice to the king who
vere of good hirth, both men aiid women. Then it was the
custom, with people of coiisi deration, to choose witli great care
the man who should pour water over their children, and give
them a name. Now when the time came that Thora, who was
then at Moster, expected her confinement, she would go to King
Harald, who was then living at Saeim; and tihe went north-
ward in a ship belonging to Earl Sigurd. Tht-y lay at niglit
close to the land ; and there Thora brought forth a child upon
the land, up among the rocks, close to the sliip's gangway, and
it was a man child. Earl Sigurd poured wat«r over him, and
called him Hakon, after his own father, Hakon earl of Lade.
The boy soon grew handsome, large in size, and very like his
father, King Uarald. King Harald let him follow his mother,
and they were both in the king's house as long as he was an
infant.
At this time, a king called Alhelstan had taken the king-
dom of England. He sent men lo Norway to King Harald,
with the errand that the messengers should present him with a
sword, with the hilt and tiandle gilt, and aUo the whole sheath
adorned with gold and silver, and set with precious jewels.
The ambassadors presented the sword hilt to the king, saying,
"Here is a sword which King Athelstan sends thee, with the
request that thou wilt accept it." The king took the sword
by the handle ; whereupon the ambassadors said, " Now thou
bust taken the sword according to our king's desire, and there-
fore art thou his subject, as thou hast taken his sword." King
Harald saw now that this was a jest, for he would be subject to
no man. But lie remembered it was his rule, whenever any-
thing nused his anger, to collect himself, and let his passion
run off, and then take the matter into consideration coolly.
Now he did so, and consulted his friends, who all gave him the
advice to let the ambassadors, in the first place, go home in
safety.
The following summer King Harald sent a ship westward
to England, and gave the command of it to Hauk Haabrok.
He was a great warrior, and very dear to the king. Into his
hands he gave his son Hakon. Hauk proceeded westward to
England, and found the king in London, where there was just
at the time a great feast and entertainment. When they came
to the hall, Hauk told his men how they should conduct them-
selves ; namely, that he who went drst in should go last out,
HARALD HAARFAGER'S SAGA. 68
and all should stand in a row at the table, at equal distance
from each other ; and each should have his sword at his left
side, but should fasten his cloak so that his sword should not
be seen. Then they went into the hall, thirty in number.
Hauk went up to the king and saluted him, and the king bade
him welcome. Then Hauk took the child Hakon, and set it on
the king's knee. The king looks at the boy, and asks Hauk
what the meaning of this is. Hauk replies, " Harald the king
bids thee foster his servant girl's child." The king was in
great anger, and seized a sword which lay beside him, and drew
it, as if he was going to kill the child. Hauk says, " Thou hast
borne him on thy knee, and thou canst murder him if thou wilt ;
but thou wilt' not make an end of all King Harald's sons by so
doing." On that Hauk went out with all his men, and took
the way direct to his ship, and put to sea, — for they were
ready, — and came back to King Harald. The king was highly
pleased with this ; for it is the common observation of all people
that the man who fosters another's children is of less considera-
tion than the other. From these transactions between the two
kings, it appears that each wanted to be held greater than the
other ; but in truth there was no injury to the dignity of either,
for each was the upper king in his own kingdom till his dying
day.
King Athelstan had Hakon baptized, and brought up in the
right faith, and in good habits, and all sorts of exercises, and
he loved Hakon above all his relations ; and Hakon was beloved
by all men. Athelstan was a man of understanding and elo-
quence, and also a good Christian. King Athelstan gave
Hakon a sword, of which the hilt and handle were gold, and
the blade still better; for with it Hakon cut down a mill-
stone to the center eye, and the sword thereafter was called
the Quernbiter. Better sword never came into Norway, and
Hakon carried it to his dying day.
When King Harald was eighty years of age he became very
heavy, and unable to travel through the country, or do the
business of a king. Then he brought his son Eric to his high
seat, and gave him the power and command over the whole
land. Now when King Harald's other sons heard this. King
Halfdan the Black also took a king's high seat, and took all
Drontheim land, with the consent of all people, under his rule
as upper king. After the death of Biorn the Merchant, his
brother Olaf took the command over Westf old, and took Biorn's
64 HARALD HAARFAGER-S 8AGA.
Bon, Gadrod^ as his foster-child. Olaf s son was called T rygg f e ;
and the two foster-brothers were about the same age, and were
ho{»eful and clever. Tryggve, esj^ecially, was remarkable as a
stout and strong man. Now when the people of Viken heard
that those of Horden had taken Eric as upper king, they did
the same, and made Olaf the upper king in Viken, which king*
dom he retained. Eric did not like this at all. Two yean
after this. Half dan the Klack died suddenly at a feast in Dron-
theim« and the general report was that Gunhild had bribed a
witch to give him a death-drink. Thereafter the Drontheim
»>ple to«.>k Sigrod to Ini their king.
King Harald lived three years after he gave Eric the
f^ipreme authority over his kingdom, and lived mostly on his
rr»a;: i^rzns which he possessed, some in Rogaland* and some
iz Hrriil^nd. Eric ami Gunhild had a son. on whom King
riLTLli T«:*ir»?«l waiter, and gave him his own name, and the
-r:?rj,r^ 'iii he sho:iM l>e king after his father Eric. King
HurLi rLi.rrl:vl =:.><: of his daucrhters within the oountrr to
1^ f:ij:--5* tz.L Z7':n th-em m.iny great families are descended.
H:z'^ r.Lrilr. iirii :- ^ Iv^l ••! s!,^kness in Kog«;.iad. and was
*:iir'if*i -i-i'ifT h n vt. i a: H v.^.ir in Kornifimd. Is Hooga-
innii J* I .'i L?*:.*— Zt:-^ <'.,-.r.iiz\z - -i::d r.:: :.\r fr.^z: ibe chcr^-
)iir L^ r^i ^'*^z fi't *z.u:.-i.y -wfri-: ;:' :':.-» :r.-r:r-. Jtr.'^ if *iir^i
;iia ^T-^iiH i--^ 'iitfr^ '-: :.;'; rrrS:?.': .*.;.;■" Kir
If " ' / r liniT "■ : "z:* *i '^'- '"• - f^' ' * - ' ■ ■ ' f-- * ^ .*?<.i^ - ."»:
jfi.i?!'-* "' liii niin. r. * vii* i z'^m: "v-ir— ■ r .i kn '^vid:!. : ia>£
vr*.'- -- ::i:ii: :Kir .hh- viiy .r^' :»•:, :' :.iy ii*i\'tur < r:r'Biat "thSzc^
;•- St"*. T.r "T.!: ■.:-■: iUU ^V'LT^ Silu^VjW t-i^M li?^ ?^■>41:■:>'-ir^
aa -^rn^-»'J' -ax*
THE ANARCHY UNDER STEPHEN. 65
THE ANARCHY UNDER STEPHEN.
(From *» The Anglo-Saxon Chronicle.")
[Henry I., after the death of his son in the White Ship, had sworn his sab-
ject nobles to the succession of his daughter Matilda and her son (afterward
Henry n.) ; but her cousin Stephen of Blois broke the oath and had himself
crowned.]
A. 1135. This year king Henry . . . died in Normandy, on the
day after the feast of St. Andrew. Soon did this land fall into
trouble, for every man greatly began to rob his neighbor as he
might. Then king Henry's sons and his friends took his body,
and brought it to England, and buried it at Reading. He was
a good man, and great was the awe of him ; no man durst ill-
treat another in his time : he made peace for men and deer.
Whoso bare his burden of gold and silver, no man durst say to
him aught but good.
In the meantime his nephew Stephen de Blois had arrived
in England, and he came to London, and the inhabitants re-
ceived him, and sent for the archbishop, William Corboil, who
consecrated him king on midwinter-day. In this king's time
was all discord, and evil-doing, and robbery ; for the powerful
men who had kept aloof, soon rose up against him ; the first
was Baldwin de Redvers, and he held Exeter against the king,
and Stephen besieged him, and afterwards Baldwin made terms
with him. Then the others took their castles, and held them
against the king, and David, king of Scotland, betook him to
Wessington [Derbyshire], but notwithstanding his array, mes-
sengers passed between them, and they came together, and made
an agreement, though it availed little.
A. 1137. This year king Stephen went over sea to Normandy,
and he was received there because it was expected that he
would be altogether like his uncle, and because he had gotten
possession of his treasure, but this he distributed and scattered
foolishly. King Henry had gathered together much gold and
silver, yet did he no good for his soul's sake with the same.
When king Stephen came to England, he held an assembly at
Oxford ; and there he seized Roger bishop of Salisbury, and
Alexander bishop of Lincoln, and Roger the chancellor, his
nephew, and he kept them all in prison till they gave up their
castles. When the traitors perceived that he was a mild man,
VOL. IX. — 6
64 HARALD HAARFAGEB'S SAGA.
son, Oadrod, as his foster-child. Olaf s son was called Tryggye;
and the two foster-brothers were about the same age, and were
hopeful and clever. Tryggve, especially, was remarkable as a
stout and strong man. Now when the people of Viken heard
that those of Horden had taken Eric as upper king, they did
the same, and made Olaf the upper king in Viken, which king-
dom he retained. Eric did not like this at all. Two years
after this, Halfdan the Black died suddenly at a feast in Dron-
theim, and the general report was that Gunhild had bribed a
witch to give him a death-drink. Thereafter the Drontheim
people took Sigrod to be their king.
King Harald lived three years after he gave Eric the
supreme authority over his kingdom, and lived mostly on his
great farms which he possessed, some in Rogaland, and some
in Hordaland. Eric and Gunhild had a son, on whom King
Harald poured water, and gave him his own name, and the
promise that he should be king after his father Eric. King
Harald married most of his daughters within the country to
his earls, and from them many great families are descended.
King Harald died on a bed of sickness in Rogaland, and was
buried under a mound at Hougar in Kormsund. In Houga-
sund is a church, now standing ; and not far from the church-
yard, at the northwest side, is King Harald Haarfager's mound ;
but his gravestone stands west of the church, and is thirteen
feet and a half high, and two ells broad. The grave, mound,
and stone are there to the present day. Harald Haarfager was,
according to the report of men of knowledge, of remarkably
handsome appearance, great and strong, and very generous and
affable to his men. He was a great warrior in his youth ; and
people think that this was foretold by his mother's dream before
his birth, as the lowest part of the tree she dreamt of was red
as blood. The stem again was green and beautiful, which
betokened his flourishing kingdom; and that the tree was
white at the top showed that he should reach a gray-haired
old age. The branches and twigs showed forth his posterity,
spread over the whole land : for of his race, ever since, Norway
has always had kings.
THE ANARCHY UNDER STEPHEN. 65
THE ANARCHY UNDER STEPHEN.
(From »* The Anglo-Saxon Chronicle.")
[Henry I., after the death of his son in the White Ship, had sworn his sab-
ject nobles to the succession of his daughter Matilda and her son (afterward
Henry II.) ; but her cousin Stephen of Blois broke the oath and had himself
crowned.]
A. 1135. This year king Henry . . . died in Normandy, on the
day after the feast of St. Andrew. Soon did this land fall into
trouble, for every man greatly began to rob his neighbor as he
might. Then king Henry's sons and his friends took his body,
and brought it to England, and buried it at Reading. He was
a good man, and great was the awe of him ; no man durst ill-
treat another in his time : he made peace for men and deer.
Whoso bare his burden of gold and silver, no man durst say to
him aught but good.
In the meantime his nephew Stephen de Blois had arrived
in England, and he came to London, and the inhabitants re-
ceived him, and sent for the archbishop, William Corboil, who
consecrated him king on midwinter-day. In this king's time
was all discord, and evil-doing, and robbery ; for the powerful
men who had kept aloof, soon rose up against him ; the first
was Baldwin de Redvers, and he held Exeter against the king,
and Stephen besieged him, and afterwards Baldwin made terms
with him. Then the others took their castles, and held them
against the king, and David, king of Scotland, betook him to
Wessington [Derbyshire], but notwithstanding his array, mes-
sengers passed between them, and they came together, and made
an agreement, though it availed little.
A. 1137. This year king Stephen went over sea to Normandy,
and he was received there because it was expected that he
would be altogether like his uncle, and because he had gotten
possession of his treasure, but this he distributed and scattered
foolishly. King Henry had gathered together much gold and
silver, yet did he no good for his soul's sake with the same.
When king Stephen came to England, he held an assembly at
Oxford ; and there he seized Roger bishop of Salisbury, and
Alexander bishop of Lincoln, and Roger the chancellor, his
nephew, and he kept them all in prison till they gave up their
castles. When tlie traitors perceived that he was a mild man,
VOL. IX. — 6
66 THE ANARCHY UNDER STEPHEN.
and a soft, aad a good, and that he did not enforce justice, they
did all wonder. Tliey had done homage to him, and Rworn
oaths, but they no faith kept ; all became forsworn, and broke
their allegiance, for every rich man built his castles, and
defended them against him, and they filled the land full of
castles.
They greatly oppressed the wretched people by making
them work at these castles, and when the castles were tintshed
they filled them with devils and evil men. Then they took
those wliom they suspected to have any goods, by night and by
day, seizing both men and women, and they put tliem in prison
for their gold and silver, and tortured them with pains unspeak-
able, for never were any martyrs tormented an these were.
They hung some up by their feet, and smoked them witli foul
smoke ; some by their thumbs, or by the head, and they hung
burning things on their feet. They put a knotted string about
their heads, and twisted it till it went into the brain. They
put them into dungeons wherein were adders and snakes and
toads, and thus wore them out. Some they put into u crucct-
house, that is, into a chest that was short and narrow, and not
deep, and they put sharp atones in it, and crushed the man
therein so that they broke all his limbs. There were hateful
and grim things called Sachenteges in many of the castles, and
which two or three men had enough to do to carry. The
Sachentege was made thus : it was fastened to a beam, having
a sharp iron to go round a man*s throat and neck, so that be
might no ways sit, nor tie. nor sleep, but that he must bear all
the iron. Many thousands they exhausted with hunger. I
cannot and I may not tell of all the wounds, and all the tortures
that they inflicted upon the wretched men of this land ; and
this state of things lasted the nineteen years that Stephen was
king, and ever grew worse and worse. They were continually
levying an exaction from the towns, which they called Tenserie,
and when the miserable inhabitants had no more to give, then
2>lundered they, and burnt all the towns, so that well mightest
thou walk a whole day's journey nor ever shouldst thou find a
man 8eat«d in a town, or it« lands tilled.
Then was corn dear, and flesh, and cheese, and butter, for
there waa none in the land — wretched men starved with
hunger — some lived on alms who had been erewhile rich:
some fled the country — never waa there more misery, and
never acted heathens worse than these. At length they spared
THE ANARCHY UNDER STEPHEN. 67
neither church nor churchyard, but they took all that was valu-
able therein, and then burned the church and all together.
Neither did they spare the lands of bishops, nor of abbots, nor
of priests ; but they robbed the monks and the -clergy, and
every man plundered his neighbor as much as he could. If
two or three men came riding to a town, all the township fled
before them, and thought that they were robbers. The bishops
and clergy were ever cursing them, but this to them was noth-
ing, for they were all accursed, and forsworn, and reprobate.
The earth bare no corn, you might as well have tilled the sea,
for the land was all ruined by such deeds, and it was said
openly that Christ and his saints slept. These things and more
than we can say, did we suffer during nineteen years because
of our sins.
Now will we relate some part of what befell in king Ste-
phen's time. In his reign the Jews of Norwich bought a
Christian child before Easter, and tortured him with all the
torments wherewith our Lord was tortured, and they crucified
him on Good Friday for the love of our Lord, and afterwards
buried him. They believed that this would be kept secret, but
our Lord made manifest that he was a holy martyr, and the
monks took him and buried him honorably in the monastery,
and he performed manifold and wonderful miracles through the
power of our Lord, and he is called St. William.
A. 1138. This year, David king of Scotland, entered this
land with an immense army resolving to conquer it, and William
earl of Albemarle, to whose charge the king had committed
York, and other trusty men, came against him with few
troops, and fought with him, and they put the king to flight
at the Standard, and slew a great part of his followers.
A. 1140. This year, Stephen attempted to take Robert
earl of Gloucester the son of King Henry, but failed, for Rob-
ert was aware of his purpose. After this, in Lent, the sun and
the day were darkened about noon, when men eat, so that they
lighted candles to eat by. This was on the 13th, before the
Kalends of April, and the people were greatly astonished.
After this, William archbishop of Canterbury died, and the
king made Theobald, abbot of Bee, archbishop. Then there
arose a very great war between the king and Randolph earl of
Chester, not because the king did not give him all that he could
ask, even as he did to all others, but that the more he gave
them, the worse they always carried themselves to him. , The
THB ANARCHT 1
earl held Lincoln against the king', and seized all that belonged
to the king there, and the king went tliither, and besiegod liini
and bis brother William de Romare, in the castle : and the earl
Btole out and went for Robert earl of Glouceater, and brought
him thither with a large army ; and they fought furiously
against their lord on Candlemas-day. and they took him cap-
tive, for his men betrayed him and fled, and they led him to
Bristol, and there they put him into prison and close confine-
ment. Now was all England more diaturbed than before, and
all evil was in the land.
After this, king Henry "a daughter, who had been empress
of Germany, and vian now countesa of Anjoii, arrived, and she
came to I^ondon, and the citizens would have seized her, but
she fled with much loss. Then Henry bishop of Winchester,
king Stephen's brother, spake with earl Robert and with the
empress, and swore them oath» that he never more would hold
with the king, his brotlier, and he cursed all those that did
hold with him, and he said that he would give up Winchester
to them, and he made them come thither. But when they were
in that place, Stephen's queen brought up her strength and
besieged them, till there wiis so great a famine in the town,
they could endure it no longer. Then stole they out and fled,
and the besiegers were aware of them, and followed them, and
they took Robert earl of Gloucester, and led him to Rochester,
and imprisoned him there : and the empress flod into a monas-
tery. Then, wise men, friends of the king and of the earl,
interfered between them, and they settled that the king should
be let out of prison for the earl, and the earl for the king ; and
this was done.
After tliis, the king and earl Randolph were reconciled at
Stamford, and they took oaths and pledged their truth, that
neither would betray the other : but this promise was set at
nought, for the king afterwards seized the earl in Northampton,
through wicked counsel, and put him in prison, but he let him
free soon after, through worse, on condition that he sliould
swear on the cross, and find hostages that ho would give up all
his castles. Some he did deliver up, and others not ; and he
did worse than he should have done in this country.
Now was England much divided, some held with the king
and some with the empress, for when the king was in prison
the earls and the great men thought that he would never more
Oome out, and they treated with the empress, and brought her
THE ANARCHY UNDER STEPHEN. 69
to Oxford, and gave her the town. When the king was out of
prison he heard this, and he took his army and besieged her in
the tower, and they let her down from the tower by night with
ropes, and she stole away, and she fled : and she went on foot
to Wallingford. After this she went over sea, and all the Nor-
mans turned from the king to the earl of Anjou, some will-
ingly, and some against their will ; for he besieged them till
they gave up their castles, and they had no help from the king.
Then the king's son Eustace went to France, and took to wife
the sister of the king of France ; he thought to obtain Nor-
mandy through this marriage, but little he sped, and that of
right, for he was an evil man, and did more harm than good
wherever he went : he spoiled the lands, and laid thereon heavy
taxes : he brought his wife to England, and put her into the
castle of ; she was a good woman but she had little bliss
with him, and it was not the will of Christ that he should bear
rule long, and he died, and his mother also.
And the earl of Anjou died, and his son Henry succeeded
him; and the queen of France was divorced from the king,
and she went to the young earl Henry and he took her to
wife, and received all Poitou with her. Then he came into
England with a great army and won castles ; and the king
marched against him with a much larger army, howbeit they
did not fight, but the archbishop and wise men went between
them and made a treaty on these terms : that the king should
be lord and king while he lived, and that Henry should be
king after his death, and that he should consider him as his
father, and the king him as his son, and that peace and con-
cord should be between them, and in all England. The king,
and the earl, and the bishop, and the earls, and all the great
men swore to observe these and the other conditions that
were then made. The earl was received with much honor
at Winchester and at London, and all did homage to him, and
swore to keep the peace, and it soon became a very good
peace, such as never was in this land. Then the king was
more powerful here than ever he was ; and the earl went over
sea, and all the people loved him, because he did good justice,
and made peace.
A. 1154. This year king Stephen died, and he was buried
with his wife and his son at Faversham ; they had built that
monastery. When the king died the earl was beyond sea,
and no man durst do other than good for very dread of him.
STBONGBOW AND DERMOT MAC MURROUGH.
STRONGBOW AND DERMOT MAC MURROUGH.
Bt oiraldus gahbrensis.
[OsKALO jm Babri, "Gerald the Cambrian," one of the bctit-knnvn
eccletiisaUcB su>d writcm of his time, waa a cadet of a great Noi-maii-WBlBb
hiiuiiH, boru hi WaiCM in 1146 ; studied at the University of Paris, and profrMes
to have won fcreat reptil« aa a lecturer; returning id 1172, took ordere, and
vns made archdeacon of Brecknock by the ioBuence of his uiiolo. bishop of
6t, David's, the metropoliUUi Welsh aee. HcTe he enforced clerical celibacy
and tithes by unsparing ezcommunicatioua. On Ihe unclc'H death, in 1176, the
chapter elected Gerald bishop on their own right, Sl David's haviug always
had archiepiscopal rlghtit ; but Henry tl. wanted no more Becketa (Bccket was
murdered 1170) nor Welsh independence, dlsatlowed the election, and Geralil
returned to Paris. The new btebop proving incompetent, Gerald was made
admialBtrator of the diocese 1180-118'(. Being then appointed a royal chaplalu,
he went to Ireland with PrioDe John, refused an Irish biabopric, and in 1IS7
published bis "Topography of Ireland" and history of ila conquest. In 1 IBS
he went through Wales with the archblahop of Canterbury preaching the
third crusade, and wrote his " Itinerariiuu CambriEB." On Henry's last cam-
pojgn, in France, 1189, Gerald accompanied bim. Richard I. on acceding sent
him into Wales t<i preservo order, made him co-regent with Longchamp and
offered him two Welsh bishoprics in succeseion, which he refused, wanting fit.
David's. He put himself out of favor at court, and spent 1102-1108 in retire-
ment, wriUng and studying. In 119S St. David's chapter again elected bim
bishop without license ; ibe archbishop of Canterbury annulled the election ;
Gerald spent five years and thr1i^e Journeys to Rome fighting him and appeal-
ing to the Holy See to recogniie St. Davida' independence, was definitively
bf^ten, resigned his archdeaconry, and retired to a remaioing life of study and
literary work. Near the close of his life he was oflered St David's on condi-
tions, but refused. He died 1210. The kings were right : Gerald was an
extreme type of the Intractable prelates who made govemincDt so difficult in
that sge, but loii vain, sell-abeorbed, and unplUble to attain a position where he
«ould do much mischief.]
DERMirms, the son of Murehard, and prince of Leinatcr,
who ruled over that fifth part of Ireland, possessed in our times
the maritime districts in the east of the island, separated only
from Great Britain by the sea which flowed between. His
youth and inexperience in government led him to become the
oppressor of the nobility, and to impose a cruel and intolerable
tyranny on the chiefs of the land. This brought him into
trouble, and it was not the only one ; for O'Roi'ic, prince of
Meatb, haWng gone on an expedition into a distant quarter,
left his wife [Dervorgilla], the daugliter of Omachlacherlin
[Murtough O'Melaghlin, king of Meathj, in a certain island
of Meath during his absence ; and she, who bad long enter-
tained a passion for Dermitius, took advantage of the abaenca
STRONGBOW AND DERMOT MAC MURROUGH. 71
of her husband, and allowed herself to be ravished, not against
her will. As the nature of women is fickle and given to
change, she thus became the prey of the spoiler by her own
contrivance. For as Mark Anthony and Troy are witnesses,
almost all the greatest evils in the world have arisen from
women. King O'Roric being moved by this to great wrath,
but more for the shame than the loss he suffered, was fully
bent on revenge, and forthwith gathered the whole force of
his own people and the neighboring tribes, calling besides
to his aid Roderick, prince of Connaught, then monarch of all
Ireland. The people of Leinster, considering in what a
strait their prince was, and seeing him beset on every side
by bands of enemies, began to call to mind their own long-
smothered grievances, and their chiefs leagued themselves with
the foes of Mac Murchard, and deserted him in his desperate
fortunes.
Dermitius, seeing himself thus forsaken and left destitute,
fortune frowning upon him, and his affairs being now desperate,
after many fierce conflicts with the enemy, in which he was
always worsted, at length resolved, as his last refuge, to take
ship and flee beyond sea. It is therefore apparent from many
occurrences, that it is safer to govern willing subjects than
those who are disobedient. Nero learnt this, and Domitian
also, while in our times, Henry, duke of Saxony and Bavaria
[Henry the Lion], was made sensible of it. It is better for a
prince to l>e loved than to be feared ; but it is expedient that
he should be feared also, so that the fear proceeds rather from
good- will than from coercion. For whatever is outwardly loved,
it necessarily follows that the same must be also feared. Where-
fore fear must be so tempered with love, that neither a lax freedom
degenerate into coldness, nor terror extorted by a rash insolence
be turned into tyranny. Love lengthened the reign of Augustus,
but fear cut short the life and rule of the emperor Julius.
Meanwhile, Mac Murchard, submitting to his change of
fortune, and confidently hoping for some favorable turn,
crossed the sea with a favorable wind, and came to Henry IL,
king of England, for the purpose of earnestly imploring his
succor. Although the king was at that time beyond sea, far
away in Aquitaine, in France, and much engaged in business,
he received Murchard with great kindness, and the liberality
and courtesy which was natural to him ; and having heard the
causes of his exile and coming over, and received his bond of
72
8TE0N0B0W AND DERMOT MAC MURROUGH.
allegiance and oath of fealty, granted him letters patent to ths
affect following : " Henry king of Englantl, dulce of Normandy
and Aquitainc, and count of jVnjoii, to all hia liegemen, English,
Normans, Welsh, and Scots, and to all other nations subject to
his dominion, Sendeth greeting. Whensoever these our letters
shall come unto you, know ye that we have received liermitiua,
prince of Leinster, into our grace and favor, — Wherefore,
whosoever within the bounds of our territories sliall be willing
to give him aid, as our vassal and liegeman, in recovering his
territories, let bim be assured of our favor and license on that
behalf."
Dermitius, returning through Great Britain, loaded with
honorable gifts by the royal munificence, but encouraged more
by hope for the future than any aid he had yet obtained, reached
at lafit the noble town of Bristol. Here he sojourned for some
time, waking ii liberal expenditure, as on account of the ships
which made frequent voyages from Ireland to that port, he had
opportunities of hearing the state of affairs in his own country
and among his people. During bis stay he caused the royal
letters patent to be read several times in public, and made
liberal oEfers of pay and land to many persons, but in vain.
At length, however, Kichard, sumamed Strongbow, earl of
Strigul, the son of earl Gilbert, came and had a conference
with him ; and after a prolonged treaty it was agreed between
them that in the ensuing spring the earl should lend him aid
in recovering his territories, Dermitius solemnly promiaing to
give him his eldest daughter for wife, with the succession to
his kingdom.
At that time, Robert Fitz-Stephen, who had been made
prisoner through the treachery of hia followers at Aberteivy,
the chief place in the district of Cardigan, of which he was
oastellan, and delivered up to Rhys, having been kept in close
confinement for three years, was releiised from prison on con-
dition of his joining Rhys in taking arms against the king of
England. But Robert, considering that, on the father's side,
he was naturally bound in fealty to the king, his lord, —
although by his mother, Nesta, a lady of high birth, the
daughter of Rhys the Great, lie was cousin-german to Rhys-ap-
Griffyth, — preferred committing himself to the chances of
fortune and fate, at the hazard of his life, in a foreign country,
than to undergo the charge of disloyalty, to the no small stain
OQ his honor and reputation and those of his adherents and
STBONGBOW AND DERMOT MAC MURBOUGH. 73
posterity. Through the mediation, therefore, of David, bishop
of St. David's, and Maurice Fitzgerald, his half-brothers, who
negotiated between him and Dermitius, after license obtained
from Rhys, a contract was entered into that Dermitius should
grant to Robert and Maurice the town of Wexford, with two
adjoining cantreds of land, to be held in fee ; in consideration
whereof the said Robert and Maurice engaged to succor him in
recovering his territories, as soon as spring should come and
the winds be favorable.
Mindful of his engagement and true to his plighted faith,
he mustered thirty men-at-arms, of his own kindred and re-
tainers, together with sixty men in half-armor, and about three
hundred archers and foot soldiers, the flower of the youth of
Wales, and embarking them in three ships, landed at the
Banne, about the calends of May [a.d. 1170].
Mac Murchard, elated with his late successes, raised his
hopes still higher, and having now recovered all his patrimonial
territories, became ambitious of regaining the rights of his
ancestors in old times, and formed the design of seizing by force
Connaught and the monarchy of all Ireland. With a view to
this, he sought a private conference with Fitz-Stephen and
Maurice, and having opened to them all that was passing in
his mind, received for answer that what he proposed could be
easily accomplished if he could procure strong reenforcements
of English troops to support his pretensions. Thereupon
Dermitius used all manner of entreaties to induce them to in-
vite over more numerous bands of their kindred and country-
men into the island, and take measures for carrying his project
into execution ; and at last, the better to persuade them, he
offered to either of them his eldest daughter in marriage, with
the right of succession to his kingdom. But as it chanced that
both were already in the bonds of lawful wedlock, they came
at last, after much deliberation, to the conclusion that Dermitius
sliould forthwith dispatch messengers to earl Richard, who has
been mentioned before in chapter 2, and to whom he had for-
merly promised to give this daughter when he was in Bristol ;
the messengers being the bearer of a letter to the following effect:
^^ Dermitius, son of Murchard, prince of Leinater, to Richard,
earl of Strigul, son of earl Gilbert, sends greeting.
'* Tempera si numeres bene qusB numeramus egentes,
Non venit ante suom nostra querela diem.
8TRONGBOW AND DERMOT MAC MURROUGH.
Were you, like those who wait your aJd, to count the weary dsiys,
You would not wonder tliat I ohide these lingering delays.
" We have watched the storks and swallows ; the summer
birds have come, and are gone again with the southerly wind ;
but neither winda from the east nor the west have brought us
your much desired and long expected presence. Let your
present activity make up for this delay, and prove by your
deeds that you have not forgotten your engagements, but only
deferred their performance. The whole of Leinster has been
already recovered, and if you come in time with a strong force,
the other four part£ of the kingdom will be easily united to
the fifth. You will add to the favor of your coming if it he
speedy ; it will turn out famous if it be not delayed, and the
sooner, the better welcome. The wound in our regards which
has been partly caused by neglect will be healed by your pres-
ence ; for friendship ia secured by good oflices, and grows by
benefits to greater strength."
ilarl Richard having beard these tidings, and, after taking
much counsel, being encouraged by Fitz-Stepben's success, of
which he bad been at first doubtful, resolved on pursuing the
same course as the others had done ; and, bending every effort
towards one object, on which his most earnest desire was set, be
made all kinds of preparations for the conquest of Ireland.
This earl was descended from a very noble stock, being of the
famous race of the Clares: but hia name was greater than bis
means, his descent than bis talents, his rights of inheritance
than his property in possession. He addressed himsalf, there-
fore, to Henry II., king of England, and earnestly prayed and
entreated him that be would either put him in possession of the
lands which justly belonged to him by right of inheritance, or
grant him license to seek hia fortune, trusting to fate, in foreign
countries.
Having obtained the king's license, although it was given
in jest rather than in earnest, earl Richard, suffering the winter
to elapse, sent forward to Ireland about the calends [the first]
of May, a young man of his on'n household, whose name was
Raymond, with ten men-at-arms and seventy archers. He wbs
a brave and stout soldier, expert in the practice of arms, and
nephew both of Fitz-Stephen and Maurice, being the son of
their elder brother.
Meanwhile earl Richard, having prepared aU things necee-
STRONGBOW AND DERMOT MAC MURROUGH. 75
sary for so great an enterprise, took his journey to St. David's
along the coast of South Wales, adding to his numbers picked
youths from the districts through which he passed. When all
was ready for the important voyage, he betook himself to the
port of Milford, and embarking there with about two hundred
men-at-arms, and other troops to the number of a thousand,
sailed over to Waterford with a fair wind, and landed there on
the tenth of the calends of September [the 23d of August],
being the eve of the feast of St. Bartholomew. On the morrow
of the feast, being Tuesday, they joined their forces to those of
Raymond, whose banners were already displayed against the
walls of the town, and advanced together to make the assault.
But having been twice repulsed by the townsmen, and the rest
who had escaped the slaughter at Dundunolf, Raymond, discov-
ering a little house of timber standing upon a post, outside the
wall, to which it also hung, loudly called on the assailants from
all quarters to renew the assault, and sent men in armor to hew
down the post. As soon as it was done, the house fell, and car-
ried with it a great piece of the wall, and the assailants entering
manfully through the breach, rushed into the town, and slaugh-
tering the citizens in heaps along the streets, gained a very
bloody victory. The two Sytaracs being taken in the tower
called Reginald's tower, were put to the sword, but Reginald
and Machlachelin of Ophelan, being also taken prisoners in the
same place, their lives were spared through the intervention
of Dermitius, who just then came up with Maurice and Fitz-
Stephen, as well as Raymond. A garrison was placed in the
town, and the daughter of Dermitius, called Eva, having been
then given to the earl by her father, and their marriage solem-
nized, according to, and in confirmation of, the treaty before
made, the whole army marched towards Dublin, with banners
displayed.
Dermitius having received intelligence that the citizens of
Dublin had summoned the people from all parts of Ireland to
succor them in defending the place, and that all the roads
through the woods and other difficult passes were beset with
armed men, was careful to avoid his father's mischance, and
leading his army by the ridges of the mountains of Glyndelachan
(Glendalough), he conducted it in safety to the walls of the city.
Dermitius had a mortal hatred for the citizens of Dublin, and
not without reason ; for they had murdered his father, while
sitting in the hall of the house of one of the chief men, which
76 STRONGBOW AND DERMOT MAC MURROUGH.
he used for his court of justice ; and they added insult to the
foul deed by burying his corpse with a dog.
Now, however, on their sending envoys to Dermitius, and
through the powerful mediation of Laurence, of blessed memory,
who was at that time archbishop of Dublin, a truce was agreed
upon, during which the terms of a treaty of peace might be
settled. Notwithstanding this, Raymond on one side of the
city, and on the other a brave soldier, whose name was Milo de
Cogan (of whom we shall speak further in the 21st chapter),
rushed to the walls with bands of youths, eager for the fight,
and greedy of plunder, and making a resolute assault, got
possession of the place after a great slaughter of the citizens.
The better part of them, however, under their king Hasculf,
embarked in sliips and boats with their most valuable effects,
and sailed to the northern islands.
On the same day two great miracles occurred in the city.
One was that the crucifix which the citizens struggled hard to
carry away with them to the islands remained immovably
fixed ; the other, that of the penny offered before it having
twice leapt back ; both of which are related in my Topography.
The earl then, having spent a few days in settling order in
the city, left Milo de Cogan there as constable, and at the insti-
gation of Mac Murchard, who had not forgotten an ancient feud
with O'Roric, king of Meath, made a hostile irruption into the
territories of that prince, and the whole of Meath was plundered
and laid waste with fire and sword.
Roderic, king of Connaught, perceiving that he was in
jeopardy, " when his neighbor's house was on fire," sent envoys
to Dermitius, with this message : " Contrary to the conditions
of our treaty of peace, you have invited a host of foreigners
into this island, and yet, as long as you kept within the bounds
of Leinster, we bore it patiently. But now, forasmuch as,
regardless of your solemn oaths, and having no concern for the
fate of the hostage you gave, you have broken the bounds
agreed on, and insolently crossed the frontiers of your own
territory; either restrain in future the irruptions of your foreign
bands, or I will certainly have your son's head cut off, and send
it to you." Dermitius, having received this message, made an
arrogant reply, adding also that he would not desist from the
enterprise he had undertaken, until he had reduced Connaught
to subjection, which he claimed as his ancient inheritance, and
obtained with it the monarchy of the whole of Ireland. Roderio
STRONGBOW AND DERMOT MAC MURROUGH. 77
was so indignant at this reply, that he caused the son of Dermitins,
who had been delivei^ed to him for an hostage, to be put to death.
Reports having been spread abroad of these events, which
were much exaggerated, and the earl having made himself master
not only of Leinster, but of other territories to which he had no
just claims in the right of his wife, the king of England made
a proclamation that in future no ship sailing from any part of
his dominions should carry anything to Ireland, and that all his
subjects who had been at any time conveyed there should return
before the ensuing Easter, on pain of forfeiting all their lands,
and being banished from the kingdom forever.
The earl finding himself in great straits, and that his followers
were much cast down at the loss of reenf orceraents and the want
of necessary supplies, after consulting liis friends, dispatched
Raymond to the king, who was then in the most distant parts
of Aquitaine, with the following letter : ** My lord and king.
It was with your license, as I understood, that I came over to
Ireland for the purpose of aiding your faithful vassal Dermitius
in the recovery of his territories. Whatever lands, therefore,
I have had the good fortune to acquire in this coimtry, either
in right of li'S patrimony, or from any other person, I consider
to be owing to your gracious favor, and I shall hold them at
your free disposal."
Raymond pursuing his journey and having arrived at court
with the earl's letter, the king received him with great coldness,
and being as usual much occupied with business, deferred his
reply. . . .
Strongbow is Besieged in Dublin.
The earl and his followers had now been confined within
the walls of the city for nearly two months, and having received
no supplies of food, either by land or sea, were in great want
of provisions. And as evil seldom comes alone, and one mis-
fortune is heaped upon another, just then, lo I Duvenald, son
of Dermitius, arrived from Kinsale, bringing intelligence that
Fitz-Stephen, with a small force, was beleaguered in his camp
at Carrig by the townsmen of Wexford, joined by the men of
Kinsale, to the number of about three thousand; and that, un-
less they were succored by a strong body of troops within three
days, they must surrender at discretion. . . .
Meanwhile, as fortune is continually changing, and success
always attended by some adverse event, the men of Wexford
78
8TRONGB0W AND DERMOT MAC MURROUGH.
and Kinsale, to tlie number of about three thousand, regardloss
of their oatha and the faith they had pledged, marched against
Fitz-Stephen, and taking him unawares, when he apprehended
nothing of the kind, and had only a few men-at-arnm and archers
tn defend his fort, they harassed him with incessant attacks.
But finding that all their efforts were fruitless, for his men,
though few, were at all times ready to stand on their guard,
and one particularly, whose name was William Not, much dis-
tiiiguished himself by bis brilliant courage in this defence, they
had recourse to their UHual falsehood and cunning. Bringing
with them to the entrenchments the bishops of Wexford and
Kildare, and other ecclesiastics, in their sacred vestments, they
took solemn oaths on the holy relics that Dublin was taken, and
that the earl, with Maurice and Raymond, and all the English
were slain ; also, that the king of Connaught and his army, with
the Leinster troops, were on their march, and drawing near to
Wexford. They also asserted that what they proposed was for
the advantage of Fitz-Stephen ; for as he had treated them like
a courteous and liberal prince, they wished to send him and his
followers back to Wales in safety, before the arrival of the vast
army which was incensed against him. At length, Fitz-Stephen
gave credit to their assertions, and committed himself and his
people to their pledged faith. Whereupon they suddenly fell
upon the English, and killing some of them, and cruelly beating
and wounding others, threw them into dungeons, A true re-
port, however, being soon received that the siege of Dublin was
raised, and that the earl was near at hand, the traitors set fire
to the town with their own hands, and crossed in boats to the
island of Begeri, also called the Holy Isle, which lies at the
mouth of the harbor, taking with them the captives and all their
effects.
The earl, continuing his march, without loss of time, de-
scended into the low country about Wexford, where he was
met by envoys, who announced to him the calamity which had be-
fallen Fitz-Stephen, and the burning of the town. They also
conveyed to him a message from the traitors, that it was their
firm resolution to cut off the prisoners' beads, and send them to
him, if he should venture to advance against them. On receiv-
ing this intelligence, they wheeled to the right, in great bitter-
ness of spirit, and took the road to Waterford, where they
found Hervey just returned from executing his commission
to the king of Euglaud, and briugiug letters, inviting the
STRONGBOW AND DERMOT MAC MURROUGH. 79
earl to come over to England, which were seconded by a ver-
bal message.
Accordingly the earl took shipping as soon as the wind was
favorable, and, crossing the sea, met the king at Newnham, near
Gloucester, where he was making preparations to pass over to
Ireland, with a large army. While there, after much alterca-
tion, he succeeded, at last, by the address and mediation of
Hervey, in appeasing the royal displeasure, upon the terms that
he should renew his oath of fealty to the king, and surrender
to him Dublin, the capital of the kingdom, and the adjacent
cantreds, with the towns on the seacoast, and all the fortresses ;
holding the rest of his conquests to him and his heirs, of the
king and his heirs.
Deemot Mac Murrough.
Dermitius was tall in stature, and of large proportions, and
being a great warrior and valiant in his nation, his voice had
become hoarse by constantly shouting and raising his war cry
in battle. Bent more on inspiring fear than love, he oppressed
his nobles, though he advanced the lowly. A tyrant to his
own people, he was hated by strangers ; his hand was against
every man, and the hands of every man against him.
Strongbow.
As to the earPs portrait, his complexion was somewhat
ruddy, and his skin freckled ; he had gray eyes, feminine fea-
tures, a weak voice, and short neck. For the rest, he was tall
in stature, and a man of great generosity, and of courteous
manner. What he failed of accomplishing by force, he suc-
ceeded in by gentle words. In time of peace he was more dis-
posed to be led by others than to command. Out of the camp he
had more the air of an ordinary man-at-arms, than of a general-
in-chief ; but in action the mere soldier was forgotten in the
commander. With the advice of those about him he was ready
to dare anything ; but he never ordered any attack relying on
his own judgment, or rashly presuming on his personal courage.
The post he occupied in battle was a sure rallying point for
his troops. His equanimity and firmness in all the vicissitudes
of war were remarkable, being neither driven to despair in
adversity, nor puffed up by success.
80 THE ASPIRATION OF BISHOP GOUAS.
THE ASPIRATION OF BISHOP GOLIAS.
Attbibutbd to WALTER BiAP.
(Translation of Leigh Hunt.)
[Umially attributed to Walter Map or Mapbs, a famous English poet, man
of letters, and ecclesiastio of the later twelfth century ; a favorite of Henry IL,
and archdeacon of Oxford in 1196. He is believed to have molded the scattered
Arthurian legends into the form under which we know them through Malory.
This poem is part of a long satirical one, **The Confession of Oolias.**]
I DEVISE to end my days in a tavern drinking ;
May some Christian hold for me the glass when I am shrinking ;
That the Cherubim may cry, when they see me sinking,
^' God be merciful to a soul of this gentleman's way of thinking."
A glass of wine amazingly enlighteneth one's internals ;
'Tis wings bedewed with nectar that fly up to supemals ;
Bottles cracked in taverns have much the sweeter vemils
Than the sups allowed to us in the college journals.
Every one by nature hath a mold which he was cast in :
I happen to be one of those who never could write fasting ;
By a single little boy I should be surpassed in
Writing so : I'd just as soon be buried, tombed, and grassed in.
Every one by nature hath a gift, too, a dotation :
I, when I make verses, do get the inspiration
Of the very best of virine that comes into the nation ;
It maketh sermons to abound, for edification.
Just as liquor floweth good, floweth forth my lay so;
But I must moreover eat, or I could not say so :
Naught it availeth inwardly, should I write all day so ;
But with God's grace after meat, I beat Ovidius Naso.
Neither is there given to me prophetic animation,
Unless when I have eat and drunk — yea, even to saturation ;
Then in my upper story hath Bacchus domination,
And Phoebus rusheth into me, and beggareth all relation.
ROBIN HOOD AND THE MONK. 81
ROBIN HOOD AND THE MONK.
(From the " Lytel Gest of Robin Hode.")
[Robin Hood is absolutely unhistorical. The legends do not even soggest a
locus of reign or real men. He is a generalized type of the outlaws produced bj
the Forest Laws of the early Norman kings.]
[Robin Hood has sent a knight, on whose lands St. Mary Abbey was about
to foreclose, money to redeem them, on the security of Our Lady, he engaging
to repay it that day twelvemonth. That day has arrived.]
The sheriff dwelled in Nottingham;
He was fain he was agone;
And Robin and his merry men
Went to the wood anon.
" Go we to dinner," said Little Johan,
Eobin Hood said, " Nay ;
For I dread Our Lady be wroth with me.
For she sent me not my pay."
"Have no doubt, master," said Little Johan;
" Yet is not the sun at rest;
For I dare say, and savely swear.
The knight is true and truste."
" Take thy bow in thy hand," said Robin,
" Let Much wend with thee ;
And so shall William Scarlock,
And no man abide with me.
"And walk up under the Sail6s,
And to the Watling-street,
And wait after some unketh [unexpected] guest;
Up-chance ye may him meet.
"Whether he be messenger.
Or a man that mirth^s can [knows good stories],
Of my good he shall have some.
If he be a poor6 man."
Forth then started Little Johan,
Half in tray and teen [grief and vexation],
And girded him with a full good sword,
Under a mantel of green.
They went up to the Sailfts,
These yeomen all three ;
VOL. IX. — tt
82 BOBIN HOOD AND THE MONK.
They lookM east, they lookM west^
Iliey might no man see.
But as they looked in Bemisdale,
By the highi way.
Then were they ware of two black monks,
Each on a good palfrey.
Then bespake Little Johan^
To Much he gan say,
" I dare lay my life to wed [wager],
That these monks have brought our pay.
<' Make glad cheer/' said Little Johan^
" And free your bows of yew ;
And look you hearts be seker [sure] and sad [firm],
Your string^ trusty and true.
^ The monk hath two and fifty men,
And seven summers [sumpter horses] full strong ;
There rideth no bishop in this land
So royally, I imderstand.
^ Brethren," said Little Johan,
" Here are no more but we three ;
But [except] we brings them to dinner,
Our master dare we not see.
^^ Bend your bows," said Little Johan,
" Make all yon priests to stand,
The foremost monk, his life and his death
Is closM in my hand.
^ Abide, churl monk," said Little Johan,
"No further that thou gone;
If thou dost, by dear worthy Qod,
Thy death is in my hand.
" And evil thrift on thy head," said Little Johan,
"Right under thy hatt^s band;
For thou hast made our master wroth,
He is fasting so long."
" Who is your master ? " said the monk j
Little Johan said, " Robin Hood ; "
^ He is a strong thief," said the monk,
" Of him heard I never good."
ROBIN HOOD AND THE MONK. 88
" Thou liest/* then said little Johaoy
''And that shall ru^ thee;
He is a yeoman of the forest,
To dine he hath badfe thee."
Much was ready with a bolt,
Eedly [quickly] and anon.
He set [shot] the monk to-fore the breast^
To the ground that he can [must] gone.
Of two and fifty wight young yeomen
There abode not one,
Save a little page and a groom,
To lead the summers with Little Johan.
They brought the monk to the lodg^oor.
Whether he were loth or lief,
For to speak with Robin Hood,
Maugre in their teeth.
Robin did adown [took off) his hood,
The monk when that he see ;
The monk was not so courteous.
His hood then let he be.
" He is a churl, master, by dear worthy Gk>d,"
Then said Little Johan ;
" Thereof no force [matter]," said Robin,
" For courtesy can [knows] he none.
" How many men," said Robin,
" Had this monk, Johan ? "
" Fifty and two when that we met.
But many of them be gone."
" Let blow a horn," said Robin,
" That fellowship [our band] may us know ; "
Seven score of wight yeomen
Came pricking on [in] a row.
And every of them a good mantfl
Of scarlet and ray [stripe] ;
All they came to good Robin,
To wit what he would say.
They made the monk to wash and wipe^
Aiid sit at his dinner ;
84 ROBIN HOOD AND THE MONK.
Bobin Hood and Little Johan
They served him both in-fere [together].
** Do gladly^ monk/' said Bobin.
" Gramercy, sir," said he,
^ Where is your abb^y, when ye are at home ;
And who is your avow^ [patron saint] ?''
'^ Saint Mary abb^y," said the monk,
"Though I be simple [poor] here."
** In what office ? " said Kobin :
" Sir, the high^ cellarer."
" Te be the more welcome," said Bobin,
" So ever mote I thee [might I thrive] ;
Fill of the best wine," said Bobin,
"This monk shall drink to me.
"But I have great marv^," said Bobin,
" Of all this long^ day ;
I dread Our Lady be wroth with me.
She sent me not my pay."
" Have no doubt, master," said Little Johan,
" Ye have no need, I say ;
This monk it hath brought, I dare well swear.
For he is of her abb^y."
"And she was a borrown [pledge]," said Bobin,
" Between a knight and me.
Of a little money that I him lent.
Under the greeniwood tree.
" And if thou hast that silver ibrought,
I pray thee let me see ;
And I ^all help^ thee eftsoon.
If thou have need to me."
The monk^ swore a full great oath,
With a sorry cheer,
"Of the borrowhood [pledging] thou speakest to me.
Heard I never ere."
"I make mine avow to God," said Bobin,
"Monk, thou art to blame;
For €k>d is held a righteous man,
And 80 is his dame.
ROBIN HOOD AND THE MONK. 86
^Thou toldest with thine own^ tongue^
Thou may not say nay,
How thou art Her servant
And servest her eveiy day.
^' And thou art made her messenger,
My money for to pay ;
Therefore I cun [feel] the mor& thank
Thou art come at thy day.
"What is in your coffers ? " said Bobin,
" True then tell thou me : "
'* Sir/* he said, " twenty mark.
All so mote I thee."
"If there be no more,** said Bobin,
" I will not one penny ;
If thou hast myster [occasion] on any more.
Sir, more I shall lend to thee.
" And if I findi more," said Bobin,
" Iwis thou shalt it forgone ;
For of thy spending-silver, monk,
Thereof will I right none.
" Go now forth. Little Johan,
And the trutii tell thou me ;
If there be no more but twenty mark.
No penny that I see [will I look at]."
Little Johan spread his mantle down,
As he had done before.
And he told^ out of the monk^'s male [trunk]
Eight hundred pound and more.
Little Johan let it lie full still,
And went to his master in haste ;
" Sir," he said, " the monk is true enow.
Our Lady hath doubled your cast."
" I make mine avow to God," said Bobin
"Monk, what told I thee ? —
Our Lady is the truest woman
That ever yet found I me.
86 BOBIN HOOD AND THE HONK.
'* By dear worthy God," said Bobioi
''To seek all England thorough^
Yet found I never to my pay
A much^ better borrow.
'' Fill of the best wine, and do him drink/' said Bobin,
"And greet well thy lady kind.
And if she have need to Bobin Hood,
A friend she shall him find.
'' And if she needeth any more silver,
Gome thou again to me,
And by this token she hath me sent,
She shall have such three [three more like it].''
The monk was going to London-ward,
There to hold great moot.
The knight that rode so high on horse^
To bring him under foot.
"Whither be ye away ? " said Brobin.
"Sir, to manors in this lande,
To reckon with our reevte.
That have done much wrong."
" Come now forth. Little Johan,
And hearken to my tale;
A better yeoman I know none,
To seek [search] a monk^'s male.
" How much is in yonder other coffer ? " said Bobin,
" The sooth must we see ; "
"By Our Lady," then said the monk,
" That were no courtesy,
"To bid a man to dinner,
And sith
" It is our o
[afterward] him beat and bind."
d^ manner," said Bobin,
"To leave but little behind."
The monk took the horse with spur,
No longer would he abide ;
" Ask^ to drink," then said Bobiny
" Or [ere] that ye further ride,"
ROBIN HOOD AND MAID MARIAN. 87
^'Nay, for God," then said the monk,
" Me rueth I came so near ;
For better chepe [more cheaply] I might have dined
In Blythe or in Doncaster.''
"Greet well your abbot," said Robin,
" And your prior, I you pray.
And bid him send me such a monk,
To dinner every day."
ROBIN HOOD AND MAID MARIAN BEFORE
RENAMING.
By THOMAS LOVE PEACOCK.
(From ♦♦ Maid MariaiL")
[Thomas Lovb Peacock, English noveUst and scholar, was bom October
18, 1785, at Weymouth ; son of a manufacturer. He was a precocious student ;
wrote several volumes of verse not memorable (1804-1812), and experimented in
drama ; was coexecutor of Shelley with Lord Byron ; 1816-1817 wrote the
novels "Headlong Hall,'* **Melincourt," and "Nightmare Abbey," and the
poem " Rhododaphne/* In 1810 he became examiner at the India House with
James Mill, and waa a valuable official of the East India Company for nearly
forty years. He published "Maid Marian*' in 1822, "The Misfortune* of
Elphin " in 1829, " Crotchet Castle " in 1831. His last novel, " Gryll Grange,"
appeared in 1800. He also did some good magazine work. He died January
23, I860.]
" The abbot, in his alb arrayed," stood at the altar in the
abbey chapel of Rubygill, with all his plump, sleek, rosy friars,
in goodly lines disposed, to solemnize the nuptials of the beau-
tiful Matilda Fitzwater, daughter of the Baron of Arlingford,
with the noble Robert Fitz-Ooth, Earl of Locksley and Hunt-
ingdon. The abbey of Rubygill stood in a picturesque valley,
at a little distance from the western boundary of Sherwood
Forest, in u spot which seemed adapted by nature to be the
retreat of monastic mortification, being on the banks of a fine
trout stream, and in the midst of woodland coverts, abounding
with excellent game. The bri(Je, with her father and attendant
maidens, entered the chapel ; but the earl had not arrived.
The baron was amazed, and the bridemaidens were discon-
certed. Matilda feared that some evil had befallen her lover,
88 ROBIN HOOD AND MAID MARIAN.
but felt no diminution of her confidence in his honor and love.
Through the open gates of the chapel she looked down the
narrow road that wound along the side of the hill ; and her
ear was the first that heard the distant trampling of horses,
and her eye was the first that caught the glitter of snowy
plumes, and the light of polished spears. " It is strange,"
thought the baron, " that the earl should come in this martial
array to his wedding ; " but he had not long to meditate on
the phenomenon, for the foaming steeds swept up to the gate
like a whirlwind, and the earl, breathless with speed, and fol-
lowed by a few of his yeomen, advanced to his smiling bride.
It was then no time to ask questions; for the organ was in
full peal, and the choristers were in full voice.
The abbot began to intone the ceremony in a style of modu-
lation impressively exalted, his voice issuing most canonically
from the roof of his mouth, through the medium of a very
musical nose newly tuned for the occasion. But he had not
proceeded far enough to exhibit all the variety and compass
of this melodious instrument, when a noise was heard at the
gate, and a party of armed men entered the chapel. The song
of the choristers died away in a shake of demisemiquavers,
contrary to all the rules of psalmody. The organ blower,
who was working his musical air pump with one hand, and
with two fingers and a thumb of the other insinuating a peep-
ing place through the curtain of the organ gallery, was struck
motionless by the double operation of curiosity and fear ; while
the organist, intent only on his performance, and spreading all
his fingers to strike a swell of magnificent chords, felt his har-
monic spirit ready to desert his body on being answered by the
ghastly rattle of empty keys, and in the consequent agitato
furioso of the internal movements of his feelings, was pre-
paring to restore harmony by the segiie mbito of an appoggia-
tura confoco with the corner of a book of anthems on the head
of his neglectful assistant, when his hand and his attention
together were arrested by the scene below. The voice of the
abbot subsided into silence through a descending scale of long-
drawn melody, like the sound of the ebbing sea to the explorers
of a cave. In a few moments all was silence, interrupted only
by the iron tread of the armed intruders, as it rang on the
marble floor and echoed from the vaulted aisles.
The leader strode up to the altar; and placing himself
opposite to the abbot, and between the earl and Matilda, in
ROBIN HOOD AND MAID MARIAN. 89
such a manner that the four together seemed to stand on the
four points of a diamond, exclaimed, ^^ In the name of King
Henry, I forbid the ceremony, and attach Robert Earl of Hunt-
ingdon as a traitor I " and at the same time he held his drawn
sword between the lovers, as if to emblem that royal authority
which laid its temporal ban upon their contract. The earl
drew his own sword instantly, and struck down the inter-
posing weapon ; then clasped his left arm round Matilda, who
sprang into his embrace, and held his sword before her with his
right hand. His ye6men ranged themselves at his side, and
stood with their swords drawn, still and prepared, like men
determined to die in his defense. The soldiers, confident in
superiority of numbers, paused.
The abbot took advantage of the pause to introduce a word
of exhortation. " My children," said he, " if you are going to
cut each other's throats, I entreat you, in the name of peace
and charity, to do it out of the chapel."
" Sweet Matilda," said the earl, " did you give your love to
the Earl of Huntingdon, whose lands touch the Ouse and the
Trent, or to Robert Fitz-Ooth, the son of his mother ? "
" Neither to the earl nor his earldom," answered Matilda,
firmly, " but to Robert Fitz-Ooth and his love."
" That I well knew," said the earl ; " and though the cere-
mony be incomplete, we are not the less married in the eye of
my only saint, our Lady, who will yet bring us together. Lord
Fitzwater, to your care, for the present, I commit your daughter.
Nay, sweet Matilda, part we must for a while ; but we will soon
meet under brighter skies, and be this the seal of our faith."
He kissed Matilda's lips, and consigned her to the baron, who
glowered about him with an expression of countenance that
showed he was mortally wroth with somebody ; but whatever
he thought or felt he kept to himself.
The earl, with a sign to his followers, made a sudden charge
on the soldiers, with the intention of cutting his way through.
The soldiers were prepared for such an occurrence, and a des-
perate skirmish succeeded. Some of the women screamed, but
none of them fainted ; for fainting was not so much the fashion
in those days, when the ladies breakfasted on brawn and ale at
sunrise, as in our more refined age of green tea and muffins
at noon. Matilda seemed disposed to fly again to her lover,
but the baron forced her from the chapel. The earl's bowmen
at the door sent in among the assailants a volley of arrows.
90 BOBIN HOOD Am) MAID MABIAN.
one of which whizzed past the ear of the abbot, who, in mortal
fear of being suddenly translated from a ghostly friar into a
friarly ghost, began to roll out of the chapel as fast as his
bulk and his holy robes would permit, roaring " Sacrilege ! "
with all his monks at his heels — who were, like himself, more
intent to go at once than to stand upon the order of their
going. The abbot, thus pressed from behind, and stumbling
over his own drapery before, fell suddenly prostrate in the
doorway that connected the chapel with the abbey, and was
instantaneously buried under a pyramid of ghostly carcasses,
that fell over him and each other, and lay a rolling chaos of
animated rotundities, sprawling and bawling in unseemly dis-
array, and sending forth the names of all the saints in and
out of heaven, amidst the clashing of swords, the ringing of
bucklers, the clattering of helmets, the twanging of bow-
strings, the whizzing of arrows, the screams of women, the
shouts of the warriors, and the vociferations of the peasantry
— who had been assembled to the intended nuptials, and who,
seeing a fair set-to, contrived to pick a quarrel among them-
selves on the occasion, and proceeded, with staff and cudgel,
to crack each other's skulls for the good of the king and the
earl. One tall friar alone was untouched by the panic of his
brethren, and stood steadfastly watching the combat with his
arms akimbo, the colossal emblem of an unarmed neutrality.
At length, through the midst of the internal confusion, the
earl, by the help of his good sword, the stanch valor of his
men, and the blessing of the Virgin, fought his way to the
chapel gate ; his bowmen closed him in ; he vaulted into his
saddle, clapped spurs to his horse, rallied his men on the iirst
eminence, and changed his sword for a bow and arrow, with
which he did old execution among the pursuers — who at last
thought it most expedient to desist from offensive warfare,
and to retreat into the abbey, where, in the king's name, they
broached a pipe of the best wine and attacked all the venison
in the larder, having first carefully unpacked the tuft of friars,
and set the fallen abbot on his legs.
The friars, it may be well supposed, and such of the king's
men as escaped unhurt from the affray, found their spirits a
cup too low, and kept the flask moving from noon till night.
The peaceful brethren, unused to the tumult of war, had un-
dergone, from fear and discomposure, an exhaustion of animal
spirits that required extraordinary refection. During the re*
ROBIN HOOD AND MAID MARIAN. 91
past they interrogated Sir Ralph Montfaucon, the leader of the
soldiers, respecting the nature of the earl's offense.
" A complication of offenses," replied Sir Ralph, " superin-
duced on the original basis of forest treason. He began with
hunting the king's deer, in despite of all remonstrance ; fol-
lowed it up by contempt of the king's mandates, and by armed
resistance to his power, in defiance of all authority ; and com-
bined with it the resolute withholding of payment of certain
moneys to the Abbot of Doncaster, in denial of all law : and
has thus made himself the declared enemy of church and state,
and all for being too fond of venison." And the knight helped
himself to half a pasty.
** A heinous offender," said a little round oily friar, appro-
priating the portion of pasty which Sir Ralph had left.
"The earl is a worthy peer," said the tall friar whom we
have already mentioned in the chapel scene, ^^and the best
marksman in England."
" Why, this is flat treason. Brother Michael," said the little
round friar, "to call an attainted traitor a worthy peer."
"I pledge you," said Brother Michael. The little friar
smiled and filled his cup. "He will draw the longbow,"
pursued Brother Michael, " with any bold yeoman among them
all."
" Don't talk of the longbow," said the abbot, who had the
sound of the arrow still whizzing in his ear : " what have we
pillars of the faith to do with the longbow ? "
" Be that as it may," said Sir Ralph, " he is an outlaw from
this moment."
"So much the worse for the law then," said Brother
Michael. " The law will have a heavier miss of him than he
will have of the law. He will strike as much venison as ever,
and more of other game. I know what I say ; but basta : Left
us drink."
"What other game?" said the little friar. "I hope he
won't poach among our partridges."
" Poach I not he," said Brother Michael : " if he wants
your partridges, he will strike them under your nose (here's
to you), and drag your trout stream for you on a Thursday
evening."
" Monstrous I and starve us on fast day," said the little
friar.
" But that is not the game I mean," said Brother MiohaeL
92 ROBIN HOOD AND MAID MARIAN.
" Surely, son Michael," said the abbot, " you do not mean to
insinuate that the noble earl will turn freebooter ? "
" A man must live," said Brother Michael, " earl or no. If
the law takes his rents and beeves without his consent, he must
take beeves and rents where he can get them without the con-
sent of the law. This is the lex talianisJ*'*
" Truly," said Sir Ralph, " I am sorry for the damsel : she
seems fond of this wild runagate."
" A mad girl, a mad girl," said the little friar.
" How a mad girl ? " said Brother Michael. " Has she not
beauty, grace, wit, sense, discretion, dexterity, learning, and
valor ? "
" Learning I " exclaimed the little friar ; " what has a woman
to do with learning ? And valor ! who ever heard a woman
commended for valor ? Meekness, and mildness, and softness,
and gentleness, and tenderness, and humility, and obedience to
her husband, and faith in her confessor, and domesticity, or,
as learned doctors call it, the faculty of stay-at-homeitiveness,
and embroidery, and music, and pickling, and preserving, and
the whole complex and multiplex detail of the noble science of
dinner, as weU in preparation for the table, as in arrangement
over it, and in distribution around it to knights, and squires,
and ghostly friars, — these are female virtues : but valor — why,
who ever heard "
^^ She is the all in all," said Brother Michael : ^^ gentle as
a ringdove, yet high-soaring as a falcon; humble below her
deserving, yet deserving bej'ond the estimate of panegyric ; an
exact economist in all superfluity, yet a most bountiful dispenser
in all liberality ; the chief regulator of her household, the fair-
est pillar of her hall, and the sweetest blossom of her bower :
having, in all opposite proposingfs, sense to understand, judg-
ment to weigh, discretion to choose, firmness to undertake,
diligence to conduct, perseverance to accomplish, and resolu-
tion to maintain. For obedience to her husband, that is not
to be tried till she has one ; for faith in her confessor, she has
as much as the law prescribes; for embroidery an Arachne;
for music a Siren; and for pickling and preserving, did not
one of her jars of sugared apricots give you your last surfeit at
Arlingf ord Castle ? " . . .
" Indeed, reverend father," said Sir Ralph, " if the young
lady be half what you describe, she must be a paragon ; but
your commending her for valor does somewhat amaze me."
ROBIN HOOD AND MAID MARIAN. 98
" She can fence," said the little friar, " and draw the long-
bow, and play at singlestick and quarterstaiBf."
" Yet, mark you," said Brother Michael, " not like a virago
or a hoiden, or one that would crack a servingman's head for
spilling gravy on her ruff, but with such womanly grace and
temperate self-command as if those manly exercises belonged
to her only, and were become for her sake feminine."
" You incite me," said Sir Ralph, " to view her more nearly.
That madcap earl found me other employment than to remark
her in the chapel."
" The earl is a worthy peer," said Brother Michael ; " he
is worth any fourteen earls on this side Trent, and any seven
on the other." (The reader will please to remember that
Ruby gill Abbey was north of Trent.)
" His mettle will be tried," said Sir Ralph. " There is
many a courtier will swear to King Henry to bring him in
dead or alive."
"They must look to the brambles then," said Brother
Michael. . . .
Sir Ralph's curiosity was strongly excited by the friar's
description of the young lady of Arlingf ord ; and he prepared
in the morning to visit the castle, under the very plausible
pretext of giving the baron an explanation of his intervention
at the nuptials. Brother Michael and the little fat friar pro-
posed to be his guides. The proposal was courteously accepted,
and they set out together, leaving Sir Ralph's followers at the
abbey. . . •
" Yonder are the towers of Arlingf ord " [said Brother Mi-
chael] .
The little friar stopped. He seemed suddenly struck with
an awful thought, which caused a momentary pallescence in his
rosy complexion ; and after a brief hesitation he turned his Gal-
loway, and told his companion she should give them good day.
" Why, what is in the wind now. Brother Peter ? " said
Friar Michael.
" The Lady Matilda," said the little friar, " can draw the
longbow. She must bear no good will to Sir Ralph ; and if
she should espy him from her tower, she may testify her recog-
nition with a clothyard shaft. She is not so infallible a marks-
woman, but that she might shoot at a crow and kill a pigeon.
She might perad venture miss the knight, and hit me, who never
did her any harm."
94 BOBIN HOOD AND MAID MARIAN.
*^ Tut, tut, man," said Brother Miohael, ** there is no such
fear."
^* Mass," said the little friar, ** but there is suoh a fear, and
very strong too. You who have it not may keep your way,
and I who have it shall take mine. I am not just now in the
vein for being picked off at a long shot." And sajring these
words, he spurred up his four-footed better half, and galloped
off as nimbly as if he had had an arrow singing behind him.
'' Is this Lady Matilda, then, so very terrible a damsel ? "
said Sir Ralph to Brother Michael.
^^ By no means," said the friar. *^ She has certainly a high
spirit ; but it is the wing of the eagle, without his beak or his
olaw. She is as gentle as magnanimous ; but it is the gentle-
ness of tlie summer wind, which, however lightly it wave the
tuft of the pine, carries with it the intimation of a power that
if roused to its extremity could make it bend to the dust."
" From the warmth of your panegyric, ghostly father," said
the knight, ^^ I should almost suspect you were in love with the
damsel."
" So I am," said the friar, " and I care not who knows it ;
but all in the way of honesty, master soldier. I am, as it were,
her spiritual lover ; and were she a damsel errant, I would be
her ghostly esquire, her friar militant. I would buckle me in
armor of proof, and the devil might thresh me black with an
iron flail, before I would knock under in her cause. Though
they be not yet one canonically, thanks to your soldiership, the
earl is her liege lord, and she is his liege lady. I am her father
confessor and ghostly director : I have taken on me to show her
the way to the next world ; and how can I do that if I lose
sight of her in this ? seeing that this is but the road to the other,
and has so many circumvolutions and ramifications of byways
and beaten paths (all more thickly set than the true one with
finger posts and milestones, not one of which tells truth), that a
traveler has need of some one who knows the way, or the odds
go hard against him that he will ever see the face of Saint
Peter."
^^ But there must surely be some reason," said Sir Ralph,
"for Father Peter's apprehension."
" None," said Brother Michael, " but the apprehension itself ;
fear being its own father, and most prolific in self-propagation.
The lady did, it is true, once signalize her displeasure against
our little brother, for reprimanding her in that the would go
ROBIN HOOD AND MAID MARIAN. 95
hunting a-momings instead of attending matins. She cut short
the thread of his eloquence by sportively drawing her bowstring
and loosing an arrow over his head ; he waddled off with sin-
gular speed, and was in much awe of her for many months. I
thought he had forgotten it : but let that pass. In truth, she
woidd have had little of her lover's company, if she had liked
the chant of the choristers better than the cry of the hounds ;
yet I know not ; for they were companions from the cradle,
and reciprocally fashioned each other to the love of the fern and
the foxglove. Had either been less sylvan, the other might
have been more saintly ; but they will now never hear matins
but those of the lark, nor reverence vaulted aisle but that of the
greenwood canopy. They are twin plants of the forest, and are
identified with its growth.
"For the slender beech and the sapling oak
That grow by the shadowy rill,
You may cut down both at a single stroke,
You may cut down which you will.
"But this you must know, that as long as they grow^
Whatever change may be,
You never can teach either oak or beech
To be aught but a greenwood tree."
The knight and the friar arriving at Arlingford Castle, and
leaving their horses in the care of Lady Matilda's groom, with
whom the friar was in great favor, were ushered into a stately
apartment where they found the baron alone, flourishing an enor-
mous carving knife over a brother baron — of beef — with as
much vehemence of action as if he were cutting down an enemy.
The baron was a gentleman of a fierce and choleric tempera-
ment : he was lineally descended from the redoubtable Fierabras
of Normandy, who came over to England with the Conqueror,
and who, in the battle of Hastings, killed with his own hand
four and twenty Saxon cavaliers all on a row. The very excess
of the baron's internal rage on the preceding day had smothered
its external manifestation : he was so equally angry with both
parties, that he knew not on which to vent his wrath. He was
enraged with the earl for having brought himself into such a
dilemma without his privity ; and he was no less enraged with
the king's men for their very unseasonable intrusion. He could
willingly have fallen upon both parties, but he must necessarily
have begun with one ; and he felt that on whichever side he
96 ROBIN HOOD AND MAID MARIAN.
Bhould strike the first blow, his retainers would immediately join
battle. He had therefore contented himself with forcing away
his daughter from the scene of action. In the course of the
evening he had received intelligence that the earl's castle was in
possession of a party of the king's men, who had been detached
by Sir Ralph Montfaueon to seize on it daring the earl's absence.
The baron inferred from this that the earl's case was desperate :
and those who have had the opportunity of seeing a rich friend
fall suddenly into poverty, may easily judge by their own feel-
ings how quickly and completely the whole moral being of the
earl was changed in the baron's estimation. The baron immedi-
ately proceeded to require in his daughter's mind the same sum-
mary revolution that had taken place in his own, and considered
himself exceedingly ill-used by her non-compliance.
The lady had retired to her chamber, and the baron had passed
a supperless and sleepless night, stalking about his apartments
till an advanced hour of the morning, when hunger compelled
him to summon into his presence the spoils of the buttery, which,
being the intended array of an uneaten wedding feast, were
more than usually abundant, and on which, when the knight
and the friar entered, he waa falling with desijerate valor. He
looked up at them fiercely, with his mouth full of beet and his
eyes full of flame, and rising, aa ceremony required, made an
awful bow to the knight, inclining himself forward over the
table and presenting his carving knife en mtlitaire, in a manner
that seemed to leave it doubtful whether he meant to show re-
spect to his visitor, or to defend his provision : but the doubt
was soon cleared up by his politely motioning the knight to be
seated ; on which the friar advanced to the table, saying, " For
what we are going to receive," and commenced operations with-
out further prelude by filling and drinking a goblet of wine.
The baron at the same time offered one to Sir Ralph, with the
look of a man in whom habitual hospitality and courtesy were
struggling with the ebullitions of natural anger.
They pledged each other in silence, and the baron, having
completed a copious draught, continued working his lips and his
throat, as if trying to swallow his wrath as he had done his
wine. Sir Ralph, not knowing well what to make of these
ambiguous signs, looked for instructions to the friar, who by
signifioaut looks and gestures seemed to advise him to follow
his example and partake of the good cheer before him, with-
out speaking till the baron should be more intelligible in his
ROBIN HOOD AND MAID MARIAN. 97
demeanor. The knight and the friar, accordingly, proceeded
to refect themselves after their ride ; the baron looking first at
the one and then at the other, scrutinizing alternately the serious
looks of the knight and the merry face of the friar, till at length,
having calmed himself sufficiently to speak, he said, " Courteous
knight and ghostly father, I presume you have some other busi-
ness with me than to eat my beef and drink my canary ; and if
so, I patiently await your leisure to enter on the topic."
"Lord Fitzwater," said Sir Ralph, "in obedience to my
royal master. King Henry, I have been the unwilling instru-
ment of frustrating the intended nuptials of your fair daughter ;
yet will you, I trust, owe me no displeasure for my agency
therein, seeing that the noble maiden might otherwise by this
time have been the bride of an outlaw."
" I am very much obliged to you, sir," said the baron ; " very
exceedingly obliged. Your solicitude for my daughter is truly
paternal, and for a young man and a stranger very singular and
exemplary ; and it is very kind withal to come to the relief of
my insufficiency and inexperience, and concern yourself so much
in that which concerns you not."
" You misconceive the knight, noble baron," said the friar.
" He urges not his reason in the shape of a preconceived intent,
but in that of a subsequent extenuation. True, he has done
the Lady Matilda great wrong "
"How, great wrong?" said the baron. "What do you
mean by great wrong ? Would you have had her married to a
wild fly-by-night, that accident made an earl and nature a deer
stealer ? that has not wit enough to eat venison without pick-
ing a quarrel with monarchy ? that flings away his own lands
into the clutches of rascally friars, for the sake of hunting in
other men's grounds, and feasting vagabonds that wear Lincoln
green, and would have flung away mine into the bargain if he
had had my daughter? What do you mean by great wrong? "
"True," said the friar ; "great right, I meant."
" Right ! " exclaimed the baron ; " what right has any man
to do my daughter right but myself ? What right has any man
to drive my daughter's bridegroom out of the chapel in the
middle of the marriage ceremony, and turn all our merry faces
into green wounds and bloody coxcombs, and then come and tell
me he has done us great right ? "
" True," said the friar ; " he has done neither right nor
wrong."
TOL. IX. — 7
98 ROBIN HOOD AND MAID MARIAN.
^ But he has,'" said the baron, *^ he has done both, and I will
maintain it with my glove/'
^ It shall not need," said Sir Ralph ; ^ I will concede any-
thing in honor."
^^ And I," said the baron, *^ will concede nothing in honor ;
I will concede nothing in honor to any man."
** Neither will I, Lord Fitzwater," said Sir Ralph, " in that
sense ; but hear me. I was commissioned by the king to appre-
hend the Earl of Huntingdon. I brought with me a party of
soldiers, picked and tried men, knowing that he would not
lightly yield. I sent my lieutenant with a detachment to sur-
prise the earl's castle in his absence, and laid my measures for
intercepting him on the way to his intended nuptials ; but he
seems to have had intimation of this part of my plan, for he
brought with him a large armed retinue, and took a circuitous
route, which made him« I believe, somewhat later than his ap-
pointed hour. When the lapse of time showed me that he had
taken another track, I pursued him to the chapel ; and I would
hare waited the close of the ceremony, if I had thought that
either vourself or vour dau&rhter would have felt desirous that
she ahould have been the bride of an outlaw.*'
*• Who said, sir," cried the baron« *• that we were desirous of
any such thing? But truly, sir, if I had a mind to the devil for
a son-in-law, I would fain see the man that should venture to
interfere."
^ That would I," said the friar ; ^ f or I have undertaken to
make her renounce the devil.*^
•• She shall not renounce the devil." s:iid the baron, ** unless
I plea^. You are verv readv with vour undertakinsrs. Will
TOU undertake to make her renounce the earl, who, I l^lieve« is
m
the devil incarnate? Will vou undenake that ? **
•*Will I undertake/' said the friar, -to make Trent run
westward, or to make tlame burn downwnrxl. or to m.^ike a tre^
gn>w with it* head in the earth and it* rw^i in the air * **
-So then," said the l>an>n, -a girlV mind i* a* harvl to
change as naturv and the element** and it i* ea*ior to luak^^ her
renounce the devil than a lov^r. Aw you a raatoh for the devil,
and no match for a man ? "
** My warfare," said the friar, - is not of thi* wv>rid. I *m
militants not a^rain^t man, but the devil, who j>>e* *lv;:t ?wekiw>r
what he may dewnir."
-Oh ! doe* he *o^" said the l\iu\>n : -thou I take it that
ROBIN HOOD AND MAID MARIAN. 99
makes you look for him so often in my buttery. Will you
cast out the devil whose name is Legion, when you o^imot oast
out the imp whose name is Love? "
" Marriages," said the friar, " are made in heaven. Love is
God's work, and therewith I meddle not."
** God's work, indeed I " said the baron, " when the ceremony
was cut short in the church. Could men have put them asun-
der, if God had joined them together ? And the earl is now no
earlt ^^^ pl^i^ Robert Fitas-Ooth : therefore, I'll none of him."
" He may atone," said the friar, " and the king may mollify.
The earl is a worthy peer, and the king is a courteous king."
"He cannot atone," said Sir Ralph. "He has killed the
king's men ; and if the baron should aid and abet, he will lose
his castle and land."
**Will I?" said the baron; "not while I have a drop of
blood in my veins. He that comes to take them shall first
serve me as the friar serves my flasks of canary : he shall drain
me dry as hay. Am I not disparaged? Am I not outraged?
Is not my daughter vilified, and made a mockery? A girl
half -married? There was my butler brought home with a
broken head. My butler, friar : there is that may move your
sympathy. Friar, the earl-no-earl shall come no more to my
daughter."
" Very good," said the friar.
" It is not very good," said the baron, " for I cannot get her
to say so."
" I fear," said Sir Ralph, " the young lady must be much
distressed and discomposed."
" Not a whit, sir," said the baron. " She is, as usual, in a
most provoking imperturbability, and contradicts me so smil-
ingly that it would enrage you to see her."
"I had hoped," said Sir Ralph, "that I might have seen
her, to make my excuse in person for the hard necessity of
my duty."
He had scarcely spoken, when the door opened^ and the
lady made her appearance.
Matilda^ not dreaming of visitors, tripped into the apartment
in a dress of forest green, with a small quiver by her side and
a bow and arrow in her hand. Her hair, black and glossy as
the raven's wing, curled like wandering clusters of dark ripe
grapes under the edge of her round bonnet ; and a plume of
V •» W 4
V 4» » fe
www
a* w
.« *
*» u ^ m
100
ROBIN HOOD AND MAID MARIAN.
o
black feathers fell back negligently above it, with an almost
horizontal inclination, that seetned the habitual effect of rapid
motion against the wind. Her black eyes sparkled like sun-
beama on a river : a clear, deep, liquid radiance, the reflection
of ethereal fire, — tempered, not subdued, in the medium of
its living and gentle mirror. Her lips were half opened to
speak as she entered the apartment : and with a smile of
recognition to the friar and a courtesy to the stranger knight
she approached the baron and said, *' You are late at your
breakfast, father."
" I am not at breakfast," said the baron : " I have been at
supper — my last night's supper, for I had none."
" I am sorry," said Matilda, " you should have gone to bed
supperless."
" I did not go to bed supperless," said the baron, — "I did
not go to bed at all ; — and what are you doing with that green
dress and that bow and arrow? "
" I am going a hunting," said Matilda.
*' A hunting," said the baron. " What, I warrant you, to
meet with the earl, and slip your neck into the same noose."
" No," said Matilda, " I am not going out of our own woods
to-day."
"How do I know that?" said the baron. "What surety
have I of that ? "
" Here is the friar," said Matilda. " He will he surety."
" Not he," said the baron ; " he will undertake nothing but
where the devil is a party concerned."
"Yes, I will," said the friar: "I will undertake anything
for the Lady Matilda."
"No matter for that," said the baron : " she shall not go
hunting to-day."
*' Why, father," said Matilda, " if you coop me up here in
this odious castle, I sliall pine and die like a lonely swan on a
pool."
" No," said the baron, *' the lonely swan does not die on the
pool. If there be a river at hand, she flies to the river, and
finds her a mate ; and so shall not you."
" But," said Matilda " you may send with me any, or as
many, of your grooms as you will."
" My grooms," said the baron, " are all false knaves. There
is not a rascal among tliem hut loves you better than me. Vil-
lains that I feed and clothe."
ROBIN HOOD AND MAID MARIAN. 101
" Surely," said Matilda, " it is not villainy to love me : if it
be, I should be sorry my father were an honest man." The
baron relaxed his muscles into a smile. ^^ Or my lover either,"
added Matilda. The baron looked grim again.
" For your lover," said the baron, " you may give God thanks
of him. He is as arrant a knave as ever poached."
" What, for hunting the king's deer ? " said Matilda. " Have
I not heard you rail at the forest laws by the hour ? "
" Did you ever hear me," said the baron, " rail myself out of
house and land? If I had done that, then were I a knave."
" My lover," said Matilda, *' is a brave man, and a true man,
and a generous man, and a young man, and a handsome man ;
ay, and an honest man too."
" How can he be an honest man," said the baron, " when he
has neither house nor land, which are the better part of a
man?"
"They are but the husk of a man," said Matilda, "the
worthless coat of the chestnut : the man himself is the kernel."
"The man is the grapestone," said the baron, "and the
pulp of the melon. The house and land are the true substantial
fruit, and all that give him savor and value."
" He will never want house or lands," said Matilda, " while
the meeting boughs weave a green roof in the wood, and the
free range of the hart marks out the bounds of the forest."
" Vert and venison 1 vert and venison 1 " exclaimed the
baron. " Treason and flat rebellion. Confound your smiling
face ! what makes you look so good-humored ? What I you
think I can't look at you and be in a passion ? You think so,
do you? We shall see. Have you no fear in talking thus,
when here is the king's liegeman come to take us all into cus-
tody, and confiscate our goods and chattels ? "
"Nay, Lord Fitzwater," said Sir Ralph, "you wrong me in
your report. My visit is one of courtesy and excuse, not of
menace and authority."
" There it is," said the baron : " every one takes a pleasure
in contradicting me. Here is this courteous knight, who has
not opened his mouth three times since he has been in my house
except to take in provision, cuts me short in my story with a
flat denial."
" Oh I I cry you mercy, sir knight," said Matilda ; " I did
not mark you before. I am your debtor for no slight favor,
and so is my liege lord."
102 BOBIN HOOD AND MAID MABIAN.
*^ Her liege lord I " exolaimed the baron, taking large strides
across the chamber.
" Pardon me, gentle lady," said Sir Ralph. *' Had I known
you before yesterday, I would have cut off my right hand ere it
should have been raised to do you displeasure."
" Oh, sir," said Matilda, " a good man may be forced on an
ill office : but I can distinguish the man from his duty." She
presented to him her hand, which he kissed respectfully, tmd
simultaneously with the contact thirty-two invisible arrows
plunged at once into his Jieart, one from every point of the
compass of his pericardia.
"Well, father," added Matilda, "I must go to the woods."
" Must you ? " said the baron ; ** I say you must not."
" But I am going," said Matilda.
" But I will have up the drawbridge," said the baron.
"But I will swim the moat," said Matilda.
" But I will secure the gates," said the baron.
" But I will leap from the battlement," said Matilda.
" But I will lock you in an upper chamber," said the baron.
"But I will shred the tapestry," said Matilda, '^and let
myself down."
" But I will lock you in a turret," said the baron, •* where
you shall only see light through a loophole."
" But through that loophole," said Matilda, " will I take my
flight, like a young eagle from its aerie ; and, father, while I
go out freely, I will return willingly ; but if once I slip out
through a loophole ••-—" She paused a moment, and then
added, singing : —
'^ The love that follows fain
Will never its faith betray ;
But the faith that is held in a chain
Will never be found again,
If a single link give way." . . .
[She and the friar sing a catoh together till the baron in a rage hnriB the
platter of beef at the friar ; but Matilda soothes him.]
The baron kissed his daughter, held out his hand to the
friar, and said, " Sing on, in God's name, and crack away the
flasks till your voice swims in canary." Then turning to Sir
Ralph, he said, " Tou see how it is, sir knight. Matilda is mv
daughter ; but she has me in leading strings, that is the truth
of it."
\
THE on). 103
THE CID.
TftAVILATftD BT JOHN 0BM8BT*
[Thb Cid is a higtorical character, though very unlike his legendary and
poetic portrait He was Rodrlgo Diaz, bom at Bivar in Castile, about 1040 : a
noble of royal stock, who was commander-in-chief of the army ; was bani^ed
(1076 to 1080) by the Leonese king who had micceeded to the throne of Castile,
but whom he had formerly driven into exile ; and took service as a condotH^e
with a frontier Saracen principality, where he fought and plundered Christians
and Moors alike, becoming reputed the foremost captain in Spain. In 1088 he
became ** protector ^^ of the rich Moorish district of Valencia ; in 1004 he cap-
tured it after a siege full of hideous cruelties, burnt the} governor and som6 Of
his companions alive, and kept it for himself till his death in 1090. His utter
disloyalty, perfidy, and savagery can hardly be exaggerated t he won nothing for
Christendom, as Valencia was retaken by the Moon after his deathi and he
fought only for his own hand. But the people only remembered that he had
been a terror to the Moors, glorified him as a loyal and lofty Christian cavalier,
and spoke of him as the *^ Cid '* (My Lord, an admiring Moorish title), and the
'* Campeador *' (champion). Their best justification is the mingled abhorrence
and homage of the Moors themselves* A Moorish contemporary Myi of him,
*' That man, the scourge of his time, was One of the miracles of tba Lord ill his
love of glory, the prudent firmness of his character, and his heroio courage.
Victory always followed the banner of Rodrigo — may God curse himl *' The
poem was probably written about 1160, by some one bom not long after Bodri-
go^s death.]
Day and night the Moorish scouts patrolled around^ &nd mighty
was their host. And my Cid's men were cut off from the water.
And they wished to go forth to battle, but he strictly forbade them ;
so for three weeks complete they were besieged, and at the beginning
of the fourth, my Cid turned to take counsel with his men.
** From water they have cut us off, our bread is running low ^
If we would steal away by night, they will not let us go ;
Against us there are fearful odds, if we make choice to fight ;
What would ye now, gentlemen, in this our present plight ? '*
Minaya was the first to speak ; said the stout oavalier :
*^ Forth from Castile the Gentle thrust, we are but exiles here ;
Unless we grapple with the Moor, bread he will never yield :
A good six hundred men or more we have to take the field :
In God's name let us falter not, nor countenance delay,
But sally forth and strike a blow upon to-morrow's day."
** Like thee the counsel," said my Cid ; ** thou speakest to my mind ;
And ready to support thy word thy hand we ever find."
Then all the Moors that bide within the walls he bids to go
Forth from the gates, lest they, perohance, his porpoee oome to
know.
104
THE CID.
In making their defenses good tbey spend the day and night,
And at the rising of the Bun they arm them for the fight.
Then said my Cid : " Let all go forth, all that are in our band;
Save only two of those on foot, beside the gate to stand.
Here they will bury us, if death we meet on yonder plain;
But if we win our battle there, rich booty shall we gain.
And thou, Pero Bermuez, this my standard thon shalt hold }
It is a trust that tits thee well, for thou art stout and bold ;
But see that thou advance it not unless I give command."
Bermuez took the standard, and he kissed the Champion's hand.
Then, bursting through the Castle gates, upon the plain they show ;
Back on tlieir lines in panic fall the watchmen of the foe.
And hurrying to and fro, the Moors are arming all around,
While Moorish drums go rolling like to split the very ground ;
And in hot haste they mass their troops behind their standards
Two mighty bands of men at arms — to count them it were vain.
And now their line comes sweeping on, advancing to the fray,
Sure of my Cid and all his band to make an easy prey.
"Now steady, comrades!" said my Cid. "Our ground we have to
stand;
Let no man stir beyond the ranks until I give command."
Bermuez fretted at the word, delay he could not brook ;
He spurred his charger to the front, aloft the banner shook:
*' O loyal Cid Campeador, God give thee aid ! I go
To plant thy ensign in among the thickest of the foe ;
And ye who serve it, be it yours our standard to restore."
" Not so — as thou dost love me, stay ! " called the Campeador.
Came Pero's answer, " Their attack I cannot, will not stay 1 "
He gave his horse the spur, and dashed against the Moors' array.
To win the standard eager all the Moors await the shock :
Amid a rain of blows he stands unshaken as a rock.
Then cried my Cid, " In charity, on to the rescue — ho ! "
With bucklers braced before their breasts, with lances pointing low.
With stooping crests, and heads bent down above the saddlebow.
All firm of hand and high of heart they roll upon the foe.
And he that in a good hour was born, his clarion voice rings out.
And clear above the clang of arms is heard his battle shout :
" Among them, gentlemen I Strike home, for the love of charity t
The Champion of Bivar is here — Kuy IHaz — I am he ! "
Then bearing where Bermuez still maintains unequal fight.
Three hundred lances down they come, their pennons flickering
white;
Down go three hundred Moors to earth, a man to every blow ;
And when they wheel, three hundred more, as charging back they go.
THE cm. 105
It was a sight to see the lances rise and fall that day ;
The shivered shields and riven mail, to see how thick they lay ;
The pennons that went in snow-white came out a gory red ;
The horses running riderless, the riders lying dead :
While Moors call on Mohammed, and '^ St James I " the Christians
cry,
And sixty scores of Moors and more in narrow compass lie.
Above his gilded saddlebow there played the Champion's sword ;
And Minaya Alvar Fanez, Zurita's gallant lord ;
And Martin Antolinez, the worthy Burgalese ;
And Mufio Gustioz, his squire — all to the front were these.
And there was Martin Mufioz, he who ruled in Mount Mayor ;
And there was Alvar Alvarez, and Alvar Salvator ;
And the good Galin Garcia, stout lance of Aragon ;
And Felix Mufioz, nephew of my Cid the Champion :
Well did they quit themselves that day, all these and many more^
In rescue of the standard for my Cid Campeador.
But Minaya Alvar Fanez — the Moors have slain his steed ;
And crowding on the Christians come to aid him in his need ;
His lance lies shivered, sword in hand he showers blows around;
As, giving back, he, inch by inch, on foot contests the ground.
He saw it, the Campeador, Buy Diaz of Castile :
Athwart him on a goodly steed there came an Alguacil ;
With one strong stroke of his right hand he cleft the Moor in twain;
And plucked him from the saddle, and flung him on the plain.
"Now mount, Minaya, mount," quoth he, "for thou art my right
arm;
I have much need of thee to-day, thou must not come to harm ;
The Moors maintain a front as yet ; unbroken still they stand."
Mounted again Minaya goes against them sword in hand.
With strength renewed he wields his blade as he his way doth wend,
Cleaving a path like one who means to make a speedy end.
And he that in a good hour was born at Fariz deals three blows ;
Two glance aside, but full and fair the third one home it goes ;
Forth spurting flies the blood ; the streams down the king's hauberk
run;
He turns the rein to quit the plain — that stroke the field hath won«
And Martin Antolinez, he at Galve dealt a stroke ;
Through the carbuncles of the casque the sword descending broke.
And cleaving down right to the crown, in twain the helmet shore ;
Well wot ye, sirs, that Galve had no lust to stay for more.
And now are both King Galve and Fariz in retreat;
Great is the day for Christendom, great is the Moors' defeat.
*******
The Count of Barcelona, when the tidings met his ear
How that my Cid Buy Diaz made forays far and near,
106 THE cm.
And laid the ooantry waste, with wtath his inmost scut was stirred^
And iti his anger hastily he spake a braggart word ^^
" He Cometh to instdt me, doth my Cid, he of Birar.
Up to my very court, methinks, he means to carry war.
My nephew he hath wronged; the wrong remaineth unrepaired:
And now the lands that I protect to harry he hath dared.
No challenge have I sent to him, nor sought him for my foe ;
But now I Call him to account, since he will have it so."
Great mustering there is of Moors and Christians through the land,
A mighty host of men at arms he hath at his command.
Two days, three nights, they march to seek the Good One of Bivar,
To snare him where he harbors in the Pine Wood of Tebar ;
And such the speed of their advance, that, cumbered with his spoils.
And unaware, ray Cid well-nigh was taken in the toils.
The tidings reached my Cid as down the sierra side he went.
Then straightway to Count Raymond he a friendly message sent :
" Say to the Count that he, meseems, to me no grudge doth owe :
Of him I take no spoil, with him in peace I fain would go/'
" Kay," sstid the Count, " for all his deeds he hath to make amends :
This outlaw must be made to know whose honor he offends."
With utmost speed the messenger Count Raymond's answer brought;
Then of a surety knew my Cid a battle must be fought.
" Now, cavaliers," quoth he, " make safe the booty we hath won.
Look to your weapons, gentlemen ; with speed your armor don.
On battle bent Count Raymond comes ; a mighty host hath he
Of Moors and Christians ; fight we must if hence we would go free.
Here let us fight the battle out, since tight we must perforce.
On with your harness, cavaliers, quick ! saddle, and to horse !
Yonder they come, the linen breeks, all down the mountain side.
For saddles they have Moorish pads, with slackened girths they
ride:
Our saddles are Galician make, our leggings tough and stout :
A hundred of us gentlemen should scatter such a rout.
Before they gain the level plain, home with the lance charge we.
And then, for every blow we strike, we empty saddles three.
Count Raymond Berenger shall know with whom he has to do.
And dearly in Tebar to-day his raid on me shall rue."
In serried squadron while he speaks they form around my Cid.
Each grasps his lance, and firm and square each sits upon his steed.
Over against them down the hill they watch the Franks descend.
On to the level ground below, where plain and mountain blend.
Then gives my Cid the word to charge — with a good will they go :
Fast ply the lanoes ; some they pierce, and some they overthrow.
And he that in a good hour was born soon hath he won the field ;
And the Count Raymond Btrenger he hath compelled to yield ;
THE CID. lot
And reaping honor for his beard a noble prize hath made;
A thousand marks of silver worth, the great Colada blade.
Unto his quarters under guard the captive Count he sent,
While his men haste to gather in their spoils in high contdHi
Then for my Cid Don Roderic a banquet they prepare;
But little doth Coimt Raymond now for feast or banquet dare.
They bring him meat and drink, but he repels them with disdain.
"No morsel will I touch," said he, "for all the wealth of Spain.
Let soul and body perish now; life why should I prolong.
Conquered and captive at the hands of such an ill-breeched throng ? '^
" Nay," said my Cid ; " take bread and wine ; eat, and thou goest
free;
If not, thy realms in Christendom thou never more shalt see."
" Go thou, Don Roderic," said the Coimt, " eat if thou wilt, but I
Have no more lust for meat or drink: I only crave to die."
Three days, while they the booty share, for all that they entreat,
The Count his purpose holds tmchanged, refusing still to eat.
Then said my Cid, "I pray thee. Count, take food and trust to
me;
Thyself and two knights of thy train I promise to set free."
Giad was Count Raymond in his heart when he the promise
heard, •—
"A marvel that will be, my Cid, if thou dost keep thy word."
"Then, Count, take food, and when I see thy hunger satisfied,
My word is pledged to let thee go, thyself and two beside.
But understand, one farthing's worth I render not again
Of what has been in battle lost and won on yonder plain.
I give not back the lawful spoils I fairly win in fight;
But for mine own and vassals' wants I hold them as my right.
My followers are needy men; I cannot if I would;
For spoil from thee and others won is all our livelihood.
And such, while God's good will it is, must be our dally life.
As outcasts forced to wander, with an angry king at strife."
With lighter heart Count Raymond called for water for his hands,
And then with his two gentlemen, sent by the Cid's commands.
He blithely sat him down to meat: God! with what gust ate he!
And glad was the Campeador such heartiness to see.
Quoth he, "Until thou eat thy fill we part not. Count, to-day."
" Nor loath am I," Count Raymond said, " such bidding to obey."
So he and his two cavaliers a hearty meal they made:
It pleased my Cid to watch his hands, how lustily they played.
" Now, if thou wilt," Count Raymond said, " that we are satisfied.
Bid them to lead the horses forth, that we may mount and ride.
Never since I have been a Count have I yet broken fast
With such a relish; long shall I remember this repast"
108 THE CID.
Three palfreya with caparisons of costly BOrt they bring,
And on the saddles robes of fur and mantles rich they fling.
Thus, with a knight on either hand, away Count Raymond rides;
While to the outposts of the camp his gitests the Champion guides.
"Now speed thee, Count; ride on," quoth he, "a free Frank as
thou art.
For the brave spoil thou leavest me I thank thee from my heart;
And if to win it back again perchance thou hast a mind,
Come thou and seek me when thou wilt; I am not far to find.
But if it be not to thy taste to try another day.
Still, somewhat, be it mine or thine, thou carriest away."
— "Nay! go in peace for me, my Cid: no more I seek of thee;
And thon, I think, for one year's space haat won enough of me."
Tbe Cid's Complaint op his Daughters' Wkonob, and His
Requital.
" So please your Grace ! once more upon your clemency I call ;
A grievance yet remains untold, the greatest grief of ail.
And let the court give ear, and weigh the wrong that hath been done.
I hold myself dishonored by the Lords of Carrion.
Redress by combat they must yield; none other will I take.
How now, Infantes ! what excuse, what answer do ye make ?
Why have ye laid my heartstrings bare? In jest or earnest, say,
Have I offended you ? and I will make amends to-day.
My daughters in your hands I placed the day that forth ye went,
And rich in weal^ and honors from Valencia were ye sent.
Why did ye carry with you brides ye loved not, treacherous curs ?
Why tear their flesh in Corpes wood with saddle-girths and spurs.
And leave them to the beasts of prey ? Villains throughout were ye !
What answer ye can make to this 'tis for the court to see."
The Count Garcia was the first that rose to make reply.
" So please ye, gracious king, of all the Kings of Spain most high ;
Strange is the guise in which my Cid before you hath appeared ;
To grace your summoned court he comes, with that long stra^ling
beard;
With awe struck dumb, methinks, are some ; some look as though
they feared.
The noble Lords of Carrion of princely race are born ;
To take the daughters of my Cid for lemans they should BOom (
Much more for brides of equal birth: in casting them aside —
We care not for his blustering talk — we hold them justified."
TTpstood the Champion, stroked his beard, and grasped it in his
hands.
"Thanks be to God above," he cried, "who heaven and earth
commands,
THE CID. 109
A long and lordly growth it is, my pleasure and my pride ;
In this my beard, Garcfa, say, what find you to deride?
Its nurture since it graced my chin hath ever been my care ;
No son of woman bom hath dared to lay a finger there ;
No son of Christian or of Moor hath ever plucked a hair.
Eemember Gabra, Count ! of thine the same thou canst not say :
On both thy castle and thy beard I laid my hand that day :
Nay ! not a groom was there but he his handful plucked away.
Look, where my hand hath been, my lords, all ragged yet it
grows ! "
With noisy protest breaking in Ferran Gonzalez rose :
" Cid, let there be an end of this ; your gifts you have again^
And now no pretext for dispute between us doth remain.
Princes of Carrion are we, with fitting brides we mate ;
Daughters of emperors or kings, not squires of low estate :
We brook not such alliances, and yours we rightly spurned.'^
My Cid, Buy Diaz, at the word, quick to Bermuez turned.
" Now is the time. Dumb Peter, speak, man that sittest mute !
My daughters' and thy cousins' name and fame are in dispute :
To me they speak, to thee they look to answer every word.
If I am left to answer now, thou canst not draw thy sword."
Tongue-tied Bermuez stood, awhile he strove for words in vain,
But, look you, when he once began he made his meaning plain.
" Cid, first I have a word for you : you always are the same,
In Cortes ever jibing me, * Dumb Peter ' is tie name ;
It never was a gift of mine, and that long since you knew ;
But have you found me fail in aught that fell to me to do ?
You lie, Ferrando ; lie in all you say upon that score.
The honor was to you, not him, the Cid Campeador ;
For I know something of your worth, and somewhat I can tell.
That day beneath Valencia wall — you recoUect it weU —
You prayed the Cid to place you in the forefront of the fray ;
You spied a Moor, and valiantly you went that Moor to slay ;
And then you turned and fled — for his approach you would not stay.
Right soon he would have taught you 'twas a sorry game to play,
Had I not been in battle there to take your place that day.
I slew him at the first onfall ; I gave Ms steed to you;
To no man have I told the tale from that hour hitherto.
Before my Cid and all his men you got yourself a name.
How you in single combat slew a Moor — a deed of fame ;
And all believed in your exploit : they wist not of your shame.
You are a craven at the core ; tall, handsome, as you stand :
How dare you talk as now you talk, you tongue without a hand ?
Again, Ferrando, call to mind — another tale for you —
That matter of tiie lion; it was at Valencia too.
no THB OID
My Cid lay gleeping when you saw the unchained Hon near;
What did you do, Ferrando^ then, in your agony of fear ?
Low did you crouoh behind the oouoh whereon the Champion lay ;
You did, Ferrando, and by that we rate your worth to-day.
We gathered round to guard our lord, Valencia's conqueror.
He rose, and to the lion went, the brave Oampeador ;
The lion fawned before his feet and let him grasp its mane}
He thrust it back into the cage ; he turned to us again !
His trusty yassals to a man he saw around him there i
Where were his sons-in-law ? he asked, and none could tell him
where.
Now take thou my defiance as a traitor, trothless knight :
Upon this plea before our King Alfonso will I fight ;
The daughters of my lord are wronged, their wrong is mine to
right.
That ye those ladies did desert, the baser are ye then (
For what are they ?-^ weak women; and what are ye ?-«* strong
men.
On every count I deem their cause to be the holier,
And I will make thee own it when we meet in battle here.
Traitor thou shalt confess thyself, so help me God on high,
And all that I have said to-day my sword shall verify."
Thus far these two. Diego rose, and spoke as ye shall hear :
*' Counts by our birth are we, of stain our lineage is clear.
In this alliance with my Cid there was no parity.
If we his daughters oast aside, no cause for shame we see.
And little need we care if they in mourning pass their lives.
Enduring the reproach that clings to scorned rejected wives.
In leaving them we but upheld our honor and our right.
And ready to the death am I, maintaining this, to fight."
Here Martin Antolinez sprang upon his feet : ** False hound 1
Will you not silent keep that mouth where truth was never found ?
For you to boast ! the lion scare have you forgotten too ?
How through the open door you rushed, across the courtyard flew ;
How sprawling in your terror on the wine-press beam you lay ?
Ay ! never more, I trow, you wore the mantle of that day.
There is no choice ; the issue now the sword alone can try ;
The daughters of my Cid ye spumed ; that must ye justify.
On every count I here declare their cause the cause of right,
And thou shalt own thy treachery the day we join in fighf
He ceased, and striding up the hall Assur Oonzalez passed ;
His cheek was flushed with wine, for he had stayed to htuk his
fast;
Ungirt his robe, and trailing low his ermine mantle hong;
Bude was his bearing to the Court, and reckless was his tongue.
V
THE CID. in
''What a to-do is bere^ my lords! was the like e^er seen ?
What talk is this about my Cid«<*him of Bivar I mean?
To Riodouima let him go to take his miller's rent.
And keep his mills agoing there, as onoe he was content.
He, forsooth, mate his daughters with the Counts of Carrion! '^
Upstarted MufLo Gustioz: ''False, foul-mouthed knave, haT^
done!
Thou glutton, wont to break thy fast without a thought of prayer.
Whose heart is plotting mischief when thy lips are speaking fair ;
Whose plighted word to friend or lord hath ever proved a lie ;
False always to thy fellow-man, falser to God on high.
No share in thy good will I seek ; one only boon I pray :
The chanoe to make thee own thyself the villain that I say,"
Then spoke the king: "Enough of words: ye have my leave to
fight.
The challenged and the challengers ; and God defend the right.''
But lo I two cavaliers came into court : one, Oiarra by name, the
other Yenego Simenez ; the one the Infante of Navarre, the other
the Infante of Aragon. They kiss King Alfonso's hand, and ask
the daughters of my Cid the Campeador for Queens of Navarre and
Aragon j whereat the Court was silent and gave ear. My Cid rose
to his feet. "So please your grace. King Alfonso, for this do I
thank the Creator, that from Navarre and Aragon they ask them of
me. You gave them in marriage before, not I. My daughters are
in your hands. Without your command, I will do nothing." The
king rose and bade the Court keep silence. "Of you, Cid, noble
Campeador, I ask consent that this marriage be ratified to*day in
this court, for it brings to you honor and territory." Said my Cid :
" Since it is pleasing to you, I agree to it." Then said the king,
" I ratify this marriage of the daughters of my Cid, DofUi Elvira
and Dofla Sol, with the Infantes of Navarre and Aragon. Let this
debate end ; and to-morrow, at the rising of the sun, shall be the
combat, three against three, of those engaged by challenge in the
court."
The marshals leave them face to face and from the lists are gone (
Here stand the champions of my Cid, there those of Carrion ;
Each with his gaze intent and fixed upon his chosen foe,
Their bucklers braced before their breasts, their lances pointing low,
Their heads bent down, as each man leans above his saddlebow.
Then with one impulse every spur is in the charger's side.
And earth itself is felt to shake beneath their furious stride ;
Till, midway meeting, three with three, in struggle fierce they look.
While all aooount them dead who hear the echo of the shook.
112
THE CID.
Ferrando and his challenger, Pero Bermuez, close ;
Firm are the lances held, and fair the shields receive the blows.
Through Fero'a shield Ferrando drove his lance, a bloodless stroke ;
The point stopped short in empty space, the shaft in splinters broke.
But on Bermuez, firm of seat, the shock fell all in vain ;
And while he took Ferrando's thrust he paid it back again.
The arntored bucikler shattering, right home his lance he pressed,
Driving the point through boas and plate against his foeman's
breast,
Three folds of mail Ferrando wore, they stood him in good stead ;
Two yielded to the lance's pouit, the third held fast the head.
But forced into the flesh it sank a hand's-breadtli deep or more,
Till bursting from the gasping lips in torrents gushed the gore.
Then, the girths breaking, o'er the croup borne rudely to the
ground,
He lay, a dying man it seemed to all who stood around.
Bermuez cast his lance aside, and sword in hand came on ;
Ferrando saw the blade he bore, he knew it was Tizon :
Quick ere the dreaded brand could fall, "I yield me," came the
Yanqniahed the marshals granted him, and Fero let him Ha
And Martin Antolinez and Diego — fair and true
Each struck upon the other's shield, and wide the splinters flew.
Then Antolinez seized his sword, and as he drew the blade,
A dazzling gleam of burnished steel across the meadow played ;
And at Diego striking full, athwart the helmet's crown,
Sheer through the steel plates of the casque he drove tlie falchion
Through coif and scarf, till from the scalp the locks it razed away,
And half shorn off and half upheld the shattered head-piece lay.
Reeling beneath the blow that proved Colada's cruel might,
Diego saw no chance but one, no safety save in flight :
He wheeled and fled, but close behind him Antolinez drew;
With the flat blade a hasty blow he dealt him as he flew ;
But idle was Diego's sword ; he shrieked to Heaven for aid :
" O God of glory, give me help ! save me from yonder blade ! "
Unreined, his good steed bore him safe and swept him past tha
bound,
And Martin Antolinez stood alone upon the ground.
" Come hither," said the king ; " thus far the conquerors are ye."
And fairly fought and won the field the marshals both agree.
So much for these and how they fought: remains to tell you yet
How meanwhile Huiio Gustioz Assur Gonzalez met.
With a strong arm and steady aim each struck the other's shield.
And under Assur's sturdy thrust the plates of Muflo's yield ;
THE CID. 118
But harmless passed the lance's point, and spent its force in air.
Not so Don Mufio's ; on the shield of Asbut striking fair,
Through plate and boss and f oeman's breast his pennoned lance he
sent,
Till out between the shoulder blades a fathom's length it went.
Then, as the lance he plucked away, clear from the saddle swung,
With one strong wrench of MufLo's wrist to earth was Assur flung;
And back it came, shaft, pennon, blade, all stained a gory red;
Nor was there one of all the crowd but counted Assur sped,
While o'er him Mufio Gustioz stood with uplifted brand.
Then cried Assur Gonzalez : '< In God's name hold thy hand !
Already have ye won the field ; no more is needed now."
And said the marshals, '' It is just, and we the claim allow."
And then the King Alfonso gave command to clear the ground,
And gather in the relics of the battle strewed around.
And from the field in honor went Don Roderick's champions three.
Thanks be to God, the Lord of all, that gave the victory.
But fearing treachery, that night upon their way they went,
As King Alfonso's honored guests in safety homeward sent,
And to Valencia city day and night they journeyed on,
To tell my Cid Campeador that his behest was done.
But in the lands of Carrion it was a day of woe,
And on the lords of Carrion it fell a heavy blow.
He who a noble lady wrongs and casts aside — may he
Meet like requital for his deeds, or worse, if worse there be.
But let us leave them where they lie — their meed is all men's scorn.
Turn we to speak of him that in a happy hour was bom.
Valencia the Great was glad, rejoiced at heart to see
The honored champions of her lord return in victory :
And Buy Diaz grasped his beard : " Thanks be to God," said he,
" Of part or lot in Carrion now are my daughters free ;
Now may I give them without shame whoe'er the suitors be."
And favored by the king himself, Alfonso of Leon,
Prosperous was the wooing of Navarre and Aragon.
The bridals of Elvira and of Sol in splendor passed;
Stately the former nuptials were, but statelier far the last
And he that in a good hour was bom, behold how he hath sped !
His daughters now to higher rank and greater honor wed :
Sought by Navarre and Aragon for queens his daughters twain ;
And monarehs of his blood to-day upon the thrones of Spain.
And so his honor in the land grows greater day by day.
XJpon the feast of Pentecost from life he passed away.
For him and all of us the Grace of Christ let us implore.
And here ye have the story of my Cid Campeador.
VOL. a. —8
OLD GERMAN LOVE SONGS.
OLD GERMAN LOVE SONGS.
Bt F. max MtJLLEB.
[Fbibdbiok Max MUlleb, cosmopoHian philologln, wbr bom Docemtwi 6,
1823, At Dcasau, Germiuiy, where his father, Wllhelm MUUer, the poet, waa
Ubruiaa. He studied at several great universitlea, makiag Sanskrit bis specialty.
Mid edit«d the lUg-veda, 1840-1874, He waa profewor at Oxford of modem
iBogiugefl, and later of comparative pbilologj, wbiob he has popularized beyond
anj other auui bj hii writingH. HIb " Chips from a Qennan Workshop " is a
well-knoWD coUecUon of his essays; bis " Comparative Mythology," "Science
of lAtiguagi.'," "Science of Religion," "Science of Thought," "Science of
Mythology," etc., have been very iuflueatiul.j
Sevbn hundred yesrs ago I What a long time it seems I
Philip Augustus, King of France ; Henry IL, King ot Eng-
land; Frederick I., the famous Barbarossa, Emperor of Ger-
many I When we read of their times, the times of the Crusades,
we feel as the Greeks felt when reading of the War ot Troy.
We listen, we admire, but we do not compare the heroes of Saint
Jean d'Acre with the great generals of the nineteenth century.
They seem a different race of men from those who are now liv-
ing, and poetry and tradition have lent to their royal frames
such colossal proportions that we hardly dare to criticise the
legendary history of their chivalrous achievements.
It was a time of heroes, of saints, of martyrs, of miracles 1
Thomas a Becket was murdered at Canterbury, but for more
than three hundred years his name lived on, and his bones were
working miracles, and his soul seemed as it were embodied and
petrified in the lofty pillars that surround the spot of his mai^
tyrdora. Abelard was persecuted and imprisoned, but his spirit
revived in the Reformers of the sixteenth century, and the
shrine of Abelard and H^loise in the Pere La Chaise is still deco-
rated every year with garlands of immortelUt. Barbarossa was
drowned in the same river in which Alexander the Great had
bathed his royal limbs, but his fame lived on in every cottage
of Germany, and the peasant near the Kyffiiauser still believes
that some day the mighty Emperor will awake from his long
slumber, and rouse the people of Germany from their fatal
dreams. We dare not hold communion with such stately
heroes as Frederick the Red-beard and Richard the Lion-heart ;
they seem half to belong to the realm of fable. We feel from
our very school days as if we could shake hands with a The-
miatocles and sit down in the company of a Julius CEesar, but
OLD GERMAN LOVE SONGS. 115
we are awed by the presence of those tall and silent knights,
with their hands folded and their legs crossed, as we see them
reposing in full armor on the tombs of our cathedrals.
And yet, however different in all other respects, these men,
if they once lift their steel beaver and unbuckle their rich
armor, are wonderfully like ourselves. Let us read the poetry
which they either wrote themselves, or to which they liked to
listen in their castles on the Rhine or under their tents in Pal-
estine, and we find it is poetry which a Tennyson or a Moore,
a Goethe or Heine, might have written. Neither Julius Caesar
nor Themistocles would know what was meant by such poetry.
It is modern poetry, — poetry unknown to the ancient world,
— and who invented it nobody can tell. It is sometimes called
Romantic, but this is a strange misnomer. Neither the Romans,
nor the lineal descendants of the Romans, the Italians, the Pro-
vencals, the Spaniards, can claim that poetry as their own. It
is Teutonic poetry, — purely Teutonic in its heart and soul,
though its utterance, its rhyme and meter, its grace and im-
agery, show the marks of a warmer clime. It is called sentimen-
tal poetry, the poetry of the heart rather than of the head, the
picture of the inward rather than of the outward world. It is
subjective, as distinguished from objective poetry, as the Ger-
man critics, in their scholastic language, are fond of expressing
it. It is Gothic, as contrasted with classical poetry. The one,
it is said, sublimizes nature, the other bodies forth spirit ; the
one deifies the human, the other humanizes the divine ; the one
is ethnic, the other Christian. But all these are but names,
and their true meaning must be discovered in the works of art
themselves, and in the history of the times which produced the
artists, the poets, and their ideals. We shall perceive the dif-
ference between these two hemispheres of the Beautiful better if
we think of Homer's " Helena " and Dante's " Beatrice,'* if we
look at the " Venus of Milo " and a " Madonna " of Francia,
than in reading the profoundest systems of sesthetics.
A volume of German poetry is called " Des Minnesangs
Friihling," — " the Spring of the Songs of Love " ; and it con-
tains a collection of the poems of twenty German poets, all of
whom lived during the period of the Crusades, under the Hohen-
staufen Emperors, from about 1170 to 1230. This period may
well be called the spring of German poetry, though the summer
that followed was but of short duration, and the autumn was
cheated of the rich harvest which the spring had promised.
116
OLD GERMAN LOVE SONGS.
Tieok, one of the first who gathered the flowers ot that (or.
gotten spring, describes it in glowing language.
" At that time," he says, " believers sang of faith, lovers of
love, knights described knightly actions and battles ; and lov-
ing, believing knights were their chief audience. The spring,
beauty, gayety, were objects that could never tire : great duels
and deeds of arms carried away every bearer, the more surely,
the stronger they were painted ; and as the pillars and dome of
the church encircle the flock, so did religion, as the highest,
encircle poetry and reality : and every heart, in equal love,
humbled itself before her."
Carlyle, too. has listened with delight to those merry songa
of spring. "Then truly," he says, "was the time ot singing
come; for princes and prelates, emperors and sqiiires. the wise
and the simple, men, women, and children, all sang and rhymed,
or delighted in hearing it done. It was a universal noise of
song, as if the spring of manhood had arrived, and warblings
from every spray — not indeed without infinite twitterings also,
which, except their gladness, had no music — were bidding it
welcome."
And yet it was not all gladness ; and it is strange that Car-
lyle, who has so keen an ear for the silent melancholy of the
human heart, should not have heard that tone of sorrow and
fateful boding which breaks, like a suppressed sigh, through
the free and light music of that Swabian era. The brightest
sky of spring is not without its clouds in Germany, and the
German heart is never happy without some sadness. Whether
we listen to a short ditty, or to the epic ballads of the " Nibe-
lunge," or to Wolfram's grand poems of the " Parcival " and
the "Holy Grail," it is the same everywhere. There is always
a mingling of light and shade. — in joy a fear of sorrow, in sor-
row a ray of hope, and throughout the whole, a silent wonder-
ing at this strange world. Here is a specimen of an anonymous
poem ; and anonymous poetry is an invention peculiarly Ten-
tonio. It was written before the twelfth century ; it« language
is strangely simple, and sometimes uncouth. But there is truth
in it ; and it is truth after all, and not Bction, that is the secret
of ftll poetry : —
It has pained me in the heart,
Fnll many a time,
That I yearned after that
Which I may not have.
OLD GERMAN LOVE SONGS. 117
Nor ever shall win.
It is very grievous.
I do not mean gold or silver;
It is more like a human heart
I trained me a falcon,
More than a year.
When I had tamed him,
As I would have him,
And had well tied his feathers
With golden chains,
He soared up very high,
And flew into other lands.
I saw the falcon since^
Flying happily ;
He carried on his foot
Silken straps,
And his plumage was
All red of gold. . . .
May God send them together,
Who would fain be loved.
The keynote of the whole poem of the " Nibelunge,*' Buck
as it was written down at the end of the twelfth, or the begin-
ning of the thirteenth century, is " Sorrow after Joy." This is
the fatal spell against which all the heroes are fighting, and
fighting in vain. And as Hagen dashes the Chaplain into the
waves, in order to belie the prophecy of the Mermaids, but the
Chaplain rises, and Hagen rushes headlong into destruction, so
Chriemhilt is bargaining and playing with the same inevitable
fate, cautiously guarding her young heart against the happiness
of love, that she may escape the sorrows of a broken heart.
She, too, has been dreaming ^^ of a wild young falcon that she
trained for many a day, till two fierce eagles tore it." And she
rushes to her mother Ute, that she may read the dream for her ;
and her mother tells her what it means. And then the coy
maiden answers : —
'< No more, no more, dear mother, say,
From many a woman's fortune this truth is clear as day,
That falsely smiling Pleasure with Pain requites us ever.
I from both will keep me, and thus will sorrow never."
But Siegfried comes, and Chriemhilt's heart does no longer
cast up the bright and the dark days of life. To Siegfried she
118
OLU GERMAN LOVE SONGS.
belongs ; for him she lives, and for him, when " two fierce eagles
tore him," she dies- A still wilder tragedy lies hidden in the
songs of the "Edda," the most ancient fragments of truly Teu-
tonic poetry. Wolfram's poetry is of the same somber cast.
He wrote liis " Parcival " about the time when the songs of the
" Nibelimge " were written down. The subject was taken by
him from a French source. It belonged originally to the British
cycle of Arthur and his knights. But Wolfram took the story
merely as a skeleton, to which ho himself gave a. new body and
soul. The glory and happiness which this world can give is to
him hut a shadow, — the crown for which his hero fights is that
of the Holy Grail.
Faith, Love, and Honor are the chief subjects of the so^alled
Minnesanger. Tliey are not what we should call erotic poets.
Minne means love in the old German hinguage, but it means,
originally, not so much passion and desire, aa thoughtfulness,
reverence, and remembrance. In English Minne would bo
" Minding," and it is different therefore from the Greek Erot^
the Roman Amor, and the French Amour. It is different also
from the German lAebe, which means originally deHire, not love.
Moat of the poems of the " Minnesanger " are sad rather
than joyful, — joyful in sorrow, sorrowful in joy. The same
feelings have since been so often repeated by poets in all the
modern languages of Europe, that much of what we read in the
"Minnesanger" of the twelfth and thirteenth centuries sounds
stale to our ears. Yet there is a simplicity about these old
songs, a want of effort, an entire absence of any attempt to
please or to surprise ; and we listen to them as we listen to a
friend who tells us his sufferings in broken and homely words,
and whose truthful prose appeals to our heart more strongly
than the most elaborate poetry of a Lamartine or a Heine. It
is extremely difficult to translate these poems from the language
in which they are written, the so-called Middle High-German,
into Modern German, — much more so to render them into
English. But translation is at the same time the best test of
the true poetical value of any poem, and we believe that many
of the poems of the Minnesangers can bear that test. Here is
another poem, very much in the style of the one quoted above, but
written by a poet whose name is known, — Dietmar von Eiat : —
A lady stood alone,
And gazed across the heath,
And gazed for hei love.
OLD GERMAN LOVE SONGS. 119
She saw a falcon flying.
" O happy falcon that thou art,
Thou fliest wherever thou likest^
Thou choosest in the forest
A tree that pleases thee.
Thus I too had done,
I chose myself a man :
Him my eyes selected.
Beautiful ladies envy me for it.
Alas ! why will they not leave me my love ?
I did not desire the beloved of any one of them.
Now woe to thee, joy of summer I
The song of birds is gone ;
So are the leaves of the lime tree :
Henceforth, my pretty eyes too
Will be overcast.
My love, thou shouldst take leave
Of other ladies ;
Yes, my hero, thou shouldst avoid them.
When thou sawest me first,
I seemed to thee in truth
Right lovely made :
I remind thee of it, dear man ! ''
These poems, simple and homely as they may seem to us,
were loved and admired by the people for whom they were
written. They were copied and preserved with the greatest
care in the albums of kings and queens, and some of them were
translated into foreign languages.
One of the most original and thoughtful of the ^^ Minne-
sanger " is the old Reinmar. His poems, however, are not easy
to read. The following is a specimen of Reinmar's poetry : —
High as the sun stands my heart ;
That is because of a lady who can be without change
In her grace, wherever she be.
She makes me free from all sorrow.
I have nothing to give her, but my own life.
That belongs to her : the beautiful woman gives me always
Joy, and a high mind.
If I think of it, what she does for me.
Well is it for me that I found her so true !
Wherever she dwell, she alone makes every land dear to me;
If she went across the wild sea,
There I should go ; I long so much for her.
120 OLD GERMAN LOVE SONGS.
If I had the wisdom of a thousand men^ it would be well
That I keep her, whom I should serve :
May she take care right well,
That nothing sad may ever befall me through her.
I was never quite blessed, but through her :
Whatever I wish to her, may she allow it to me I
It was a blessed thing for me
That she, the Beautiful, received me into her grace.
Carlyle, no doubt, is right when he says that, among all this
warbling of love, there are infinite twitterings which, except
their gladness, have little to oharm us. Yet we like to read
them as part of the bright history of those bygone days. One
poet sings : —
If the whole world was mine,
From the Sea to the Bhine,
I would gladly give it all.
That the Queen of England
Lay in my arms, etc.
Who was the impertinent German that dared to fall in love
with a Queen of England ? We do not know. But there can
be no doubt that the Queen of England whom he adored was
the gay and beautiful Eleanor of Poitou, the Queen of Henry II.,
who filled the heart of many a Crusader with unholy thoughts.
Her daughter, too, Mathilde, who was married to Henry the
Lion of Saxony, inspired many a poet of those days. Her
beauty was celebrated by the Provencal Troubadours ; and at
the court of her husband, she encouraged several of her Ger-
man vassals to follow the example of the French and Norman
knights, and sing the love of Tristan and Isolt, and the adven-
tures of the knights of Charlemagne.
They must have been happy times, those times of the Cru-
sades I Nor have they passed away without leaving their
impress on the hearts and minds of the nations of Europe.
The Holy Sepulcher, it is true, is still in the hands of the Infi-
dels, and the bones of the Crusaders lie buried in unhallowed
soil, and their deeds of valor are well-nigh forgotten, and their
chivalrous Tournaments and their Courts of Love are smiled
at by a wiser generation. But much that is noble and heroic
in the feelings of the nineteenth century has its hidden roots
in the thirteenth. Gothic architecture and Gothic poetry are
the children of the same mother ; and if the true but unadorned
^
POEMS OF THE MINNESINGEBa 121
language of the heart, the aspirations of a real faith, the sorrow
and joy o& a true love, are still listened to by the nations of
Europe ; and if what is called the Romantic school is strong
enough to hold its ground against the classical taste and its
royal patrons, such as Louis XIV., Charles II., and Frederick
the Great, — we owe it to those chivalrous poets who dared for
the first time to be what they were, and to say what they felt,
and to whom Faith, Love, and Honor were worthy subjects of
poetry, though they lacked the sanction of the Periclean and
Augustan ages.
POEMS OF THE MINNESINGERS.
Translatkd bt EDGAR TAYLOR and 8. AU8TIV.
Harald the Hardy.
[Middle of eleventh oentniy. j
My bark around Sicilia sailed ;
Then were we gallant, proud, and strong;
The winged ship, by youths impelled,
Skimmed, as we hoped, the waves along:
My prowess, tried iu martial field.
Like fruit to maiden fair shall yield!
With golden ring in Eussia's land
To me the virgin plights her hand.
Fierce was the fight on Trondhiem's heath ;
I saw her sons to battle move ;
Though few, upon that field of death
Long, long, our desperate warriors strove :
Young from my king in battle slain
I parted on that bloody plain.
With golden ring in Russia's land
To me the virgin plights her hand.
With vigorous arms the pomp we plied|
Sixteen (no more) my dauntless crew,
And high and furious waxed the tide;
O'er the deep bark its billows flew;
122 POEMS OF THE MINNESIN6EBS.
My prowess, tried in hour of need.
Alike with maiden fair shall speed.
With golden ring in Russia's land
To me the virgin plights her hand.
Eight feats I ken : — the sportive game«>
The war array — the fabrile art —
With fearless breast the waves I stem^^
I press the steed — I cast the dart —
Cer ice on slippery skates I glide —
My dexterous oar defies the tide.
With golden ring in Eussia's land
To me the virgin plights her hand.
Let blooming maid and widow say.
Mid proud Byzantium's southern walls
What deeds we wrought at dawn of day !
What falchions sounded through their halls I
What blood disdained each weighty spear I
Those feats are famous far and near.
With golden ring in Eussia's land
To me the virgin plights her hand.
Where snow-clad Uplands rear their head.
My breath I drew mid bowmen strong;
But now my bark, the peasants' dread,
Kisses the sea its rocks among ;
Mid barren isles, where ocean foamed
Far from the tread of man I roamed.
With golden ring in Eussia's land
To me the virgin plights her hand.
Sonnet of '<Deb Marneb."
[Date uncertain.]
Mabia! Virgin! mother! comforter
Of sinners ! queen of saints in heav'n thou art !
Thy beauty round the eternal throne doth cast
A brightness that outshines its living rays :
There in the fullness of transcendent joy
Heaven's king and thou sit in bright majesty ;
Would I were there, a welcomed guest at last
Where angel tongues reecho praise to praise I
POEMS OF THE MINNESINGERS. 128
There Michael sings the blessed Savior's name
Till round the eternal throne it rings once more.
And angels in their choirs with glad acclaim^
Triumphant host, their joyful praises pour :
There thousand years than days more short appear,
Such joy from God doth flow and from that mother dear.
DiBTliAB OF AsT.
[Early twelfth centaiy.]
By the heath stood a lady
All lonely and fair,
As she watched for her loyer
A falcon flew near.
" Happy falcon ! " she cried,
"Who can fly where he list,
And can choose in the forest
The tree he loves best !
" Thus, too, had I chosen
One knight for mine own,
Him my eye had selected,
Him prized I alone.
But other fair ladies
Have envied my joy;
And why ? for I sought not
Their bliss to destroy.
" As to thee, lovely summer I
Eeturns the birds' strain.
As on yonder green linden
The leaves spring again,
So constant doth grief
At my eyes overflow.
And wilt thou not, dearest,
Betum to me now ?
" Yes, come, my own hero.
All others desert I
When first my eye saw thee,
How graceful thou wert ;
How fair was thy presence.
How graceful, how bright ;
Then think of me only.
My own chosen knight! "
124 FOBMS OF THE MIKNEaiNOBBa
WOLFftAH VOV EaCBMSBAOtL
[Early In twelfth centaiy.]
Would I the lofty spirit melt
Of that proud dame who dwells so highf
Kind heaven must aid me, or unfelt
By her will be its a^^y.
Joy in my soul no place can find :
As well might I a suitor be
To thunderbolts, as hope her mind
Will turn in softer mood to met
Those cheeks are beautiful, are bright
As the red rose with dewdrops graced ;
And faultless is the lovely light
Of those dear eyes, that, on me placed,
Pierce to my very heart, and fill
My soul with love's consuming fires,
While passion bums and reigns at will ;
So deep the love that fair inspires !
But joy upon her beauteous form
Attends, her hues so bright to shed
O'er those red lips, before whose warm
And beaming smile all care is fled.
She is to me all light and joy,
I faint, I die, before her &own ;
Even Venus, lived she yet on earth,
A fairer goddess here must own. . . .
While many mourn the vanished light
Of summer and the sweet sun's face,
I mourn that these, however bright.
No anguish from the soul can chase
By love inflicted : all around,
Nor song of birds, nor ladies' bloom.
Nor flowers upspringing from the groimd,
Can chase or cheer the spirits' gloom. . .
Yet still thine aid, beloved I impart,
Of all thy power, thy love, make trial:
Bid joy revive in this sad heart,
Joy that expires at thy denial 2
/
V
POEMS OF TH£ MINNESINGSBa 126
Well may I poor my prayer to thee.
Beloved lady, since 'tis thine
Alone to send suoh care on me;
Alone for thee I ceaseless pine.
Chsistian of Hamt.i8.
[Middle of the twelfth century.]
Wonld that the meadow could speak
And then would it truly 4eclare
How happy was yesterday,
When my lady love was there ;
When she plucked its flowers, and gently prest
Her lovely feet on its verdant breast
Meadow I what transport was thine
When my lady walked across thee ;
And her white hands plucked the flowers,
Those beautiful flowers that emboss thee !
Oh, suffer me, then, thou bright green sod,
To set my feet where my lady trodt
Meadow ! pray thou for the ease
Of a heart that with love is panting!
And so will / pray, that her feet
On thy sod my lady planting,
No wintry snows may ever lie there,
And my heart be green as your vesture fair.
**The Chanobllob."
[Date uncertain.]
Who would summer pleasures try
Ijet him to the meadows hie.
O'er the mountain, in the vale.
Gladsome sounds and sights prevail ;
In the field fresh flowers are springing,
In the boughs new carols singing,
Bichly in sweet harmony
There the birds new music ply.
This is all thine own, sweet May !
As thy softer breezes play.
Snow and frost work melt away.
126 POEMS OF THE MmNESIN6ER&
Old and young come forth ! for ye
Winter bound again are free.
Up I ye shall not grieve again.
Look upon that verdant plain.
Its gloomy robe no more it wears ;
How beauteously its face appears I
He who mid the flowers enjoys
The sweetness of his lady's eyes.
Let him cast his cares away.
And give the meed of thanks to May.
•
From the heart's most deep recess.
Hovering smiles, intent to bless,
Gather on my lady's lips ;
Smiles, that other smiles eclipse ;
Smiles, more potent, care dispelling.
Than tiie bank with flowers sweet smellingi
Than the birds' melodious measures,
Than our choicest woodland treasures,
Than the flower-besprinkled plains.
Than the nightingale's sweet strains |
Fairer, sweeter, beauty reigns.
Ulsich of Lichtenstein.
[liiddle of the twelfth centoiy.]
^Lady beauteous, lady pure.
Lady happy, lady kind.
Love, methinks, has little power.
So proud thy bearing, o'er thy mind.
Didst thou feel the power of love.
Then would those fair lips unclose,
And be taught in sighs to move."
** What is love, then, good sir knight?
Is it man or woman ? say ;
Tell me, if I know it not.
How it comes to pass, I pray.
Thou should'st tell me all its story.
Whence, and where, it cometh here.
That my heart may yet be wary.''
^'Lady, love so mighty is.
All things living to her bow;
POEMS OF THE MINNESINGERS. 127
Vaxious is her power, but I
Will tell thee what of her I know.
Love is good, and love is ill,
Joy and woe she can bestow.
Spreading life and spirit stiU.''
''Can love banish, courteous knight^
Pining grief and wasting woe ?
Four gay spirits on the heart,
Polish, grace, and ease bestow ?
If in her tJiese powers may meet^
Great is she, and thus shall be
Her praise and honor great."
"Lady, I will yet say more;
Lovely are her gifts, her hand
Joy bestows, and honor too ;
The virtues come at her command,
Joys of sight and joys of heart
She bestows, and she may choose,
And splendid fortune dotb impart."
" How shall I obtain, sir knight,
All these gifts of lady love ?
Must I bear a load of care ?
Much too weak my frame would prove.
Grief and care I cannot bear ;
Can I then the boon obtain;
Tell me, sir knight, then, how and where.''
" Lady, thou should'st think of me
As I of thee think, — heartily.
Thus shall we together blend
Firm in love's sweet harmony.
Thou still mine, I still thine.''
"It cannot be, sir knight, with me;
Be your own, I'll still be mine."
Watch Sonq.
[Date uncertain.]
I heard before the dawn of day
The watchman loud proclaim :
" If any knightly lover stay
In secret with his dame,
128 POEMS OF THE MINNESIKGEBS.
Take heed, the sun will soon appear;
Then fly, ye knights, your ladies dear,
Fly ere the daylight dawn.
^ Brightly gleams the firmament,
In silvery splendor gay ;
Bejoioing that the night is spent,
The lark salutes the day :
Then fly, ye lovers, and be gone I
Take leave before the night is done.
And jealons eyes appear."
That watchman's call did wound my hearty
And banished my delight :
^' Alas, the envious sun will part
Our loves, my lady bright.''
On me she looked with downcast eye,
Despairing at my mournful cry,
" We tarry here too long."
Straight to the wicket did she speed;
" Good watchman, spare thy joke I
Warn not my love, till o'er the mead
The morning sun has broke :
Too short, alas I the time, since here
I tarried with my leman dear.
In love and converse sweet."
''Lady, be warned ! on roof and mead
The dewdrops glitter gay 5
Then quickly bid thy leman speed,
Nor linger till the day ;
For by the twilight did I mark
Wolves hieing to their covert dark,
And stags to covert fly."
Now by the rising sun I viewed
In tears my lady's face :
She gave me many a token good.
And many a soft embrace.
Our parting bitterly we mourned;
The hearts which erst with rapture burned,
Were oold with woe and care.
A ring, with glittering ruby red,
Gktve me that lady sheen,
POEMS OF THE MINNESIN6EBS. 129
And with me from the castle sped
Along the meadow green :
And whilst I saw my leman bright.
She waved on high her 'kerchief white :
" Courage I To arms I " she cried.
In the raging fight each pennon white
Reminds me of her love ;
In the field of blood, with mournful mood,
I see her 'kerchief move ;
Through foes I hew, whene'er I view
Her ruby ring, and blithely sing,
" Lady, I fight for thee."
Hekby of Mortjnoxl
[First part of thirteenth century.]
Mine is the fortune of a simple child
That in the glass his image looks upon ;
And by the shadow of himself beguiled
Breaks quick the brittle charm, and joy is gone.
So gazed I — and I deemed my joy would last —
On the bright image of my lady fair :
But ah ! the dream of my delight is past.
And love and rapture yield to dark despair.
Walter von deb Yooelweids.
[Early thirteenth century.]
Mournings.
To ME is barred the door of joy and ease.
There stand I as an orphan, lone, forlorn,
And nothing boots me that I frequent knock.
Strange that on every hand the show'r should fall,
And not one cheering drop should reach to me !
On all around the gen'rous Austrian's gifts.
Gladdening the land, like genial rain descend :
A fair and gay adorned mead is he.
Whereon are gathered of the sweetest flowers :
Would that his rich and ever gen'rous hand
Might stoop to pluck one little leaf for me,
So might I fitly praise a scene so fair I
VOL. IX. — 9
180 POEMS OF THE MINNESINGEBS.
Fain (could it be) would I a home obtain.
And warm me by a hearth-side of my own.
Then, then, I'd sing about the sweet birds' strain,
And fields and flowers, as I have whilome done ;
And paint in song the lily and the rose
That dwell upon her cheek who smiles on me.
But lone I stray — no home its comfort shows :
Ah, luckless man I still doomed a guetlt to be I
A mournful one am I, above whose head
A day of perfect bliss hath never past ;
Whatever joys my soul have ravished.
Soon was the radiance of those joys o'ercast
And none can show me that substantial pleasure
Which will not pass away like bloom from flowers ;
Therefore, no more my heart such joys shall treasure,
Nor pine for fading sweets and fleeting hours.
Ah I where are hours departed fled ?
Is life a dream, or true indeed ?
Did all my heart hath fashioned
From fancy's visitings proceed ?
Tes ! I have slept ; and now unknown
To me the things best known before:
The land, the people, once mine own.
Where are they ? — they are here no more :
My boyhood's friends, all aged, worn.
Despoiled the woods, the fields, of home.
Only ^e stream flows on forlorn ;
(Alas I that e'er such change should come I )
And he who knew me once so well
Salutes me now as one estranged :
The very earth to me can tell
Of naught but things perverted, changed :
And when I muse on other days.
That passed me as the dashing oars
The surface of the ocean raise,
Ceaseless my heart its fate deplores.
May and His Lady.
When from the sod the flow'rets spring,
And smile to meet the sun's bright ray,
When birds their sweetest carols sing
In all the morning pride of May,
\
POEMS OF THE MINNESINGERS. 131
What lovelier than the prospect there ?
Can earth boast anything more fair ?
To me it seems an almost heaven^
So beauteous to my eyes that vision bright is given.
But when a lady, chaste and fair,
Noble, and clad in rich attire,
Walks through the throng with gracious air,
As sun that bids the stars retire, —
Then, where are all thy boastings. May ?
What hast thou beautiful and gay
Compared with that supreme delight ?
We leave thy loveliest flowers, and watch that lady bright
Wouldst thou believe me, — come and place
Before thee all this pride of May ;
Then look but on my lady's face.
And, which is best and brightest ? say :
For me, how soon (if choice were mine)
This would I take, and that resign I
And say, '^ Though sweet thy beauties. May I
I'd rather forfeit all than lose my lady gay."
The WreaJth.
"Lady," I said, " this garland wear !
For thou wilt wear it gracefully :
And on thy brow 'twiU sit so fair.
And thou wilt dance so light and free;
Had I a thousand gems, on thee.
Fair one ! their brilliant light should shine
Would'st thou such gift accept from me, —
Oh, doubt me not, — it should be thine.
" Lady, so beautiful thou art.
That I on thee the wreath bestow,
'Tis the best gift I can impart ;
But whiter, rosier flowers, I know,
Upon the distant plain they're springing,
Where beauteously their heads they rear.
And birds their sweetest songs are singing :
Come I let us go and pluck them there."
She took the beauteous wreath I chose.
And like a child at praises glowing,
182 POEMS OF THE MINNESINGEBS.
Her cheeks blushed crimson as the rose^
When by the snow-white lily growing :
But all from those bright eyes eclipse
Beceived ; and then, my toil to pay.
Blind, precious words fell from her lips :
What more than this I shall not say.
HUOH OF WSBBENWAO.
[Middle of thirteenth century.]
If such her purpose last, I'll send
A message to my lady,
To warn her that my suit I'll ply
Unto the king to aid me ;
I'll say she wins and wears my gage,
Yet will she not my pain assuage ;
And if he hears me not, I'll seek the emperor's court
Yet fear I when we both appear
Battel must wag^d be ;
If she on oath deny the truth
Of the words she spoke to me.
Then must I strive with her in fight :
So is the law ; but shall I smite
That lady ? Yet how hard to let her strike me dead.
Yes, if King Conrad listen not,
Or hearing will not heed.
Then will I seek the Emperor's grace,
For he hath heard the deed :
And still if justice be not there,
I'll to Thuringia's prince repair,
Or to the Pope, with whom justice in mercy dwells.
Lady.
Dear friend, thy anger waxes high,
To kings and emperors flying ;
Go not to Bome, but rest at home,
For hope on me relying:
The light of faithful love pursue.
And follow still with service true ;
Love without law is best : such would my counsel be.
£FISOD£S FROM THE NIBELUNGENUED. 183
EPISODES FROM THE NIBELUNGENLIED.
Trakblatsd bt W. N. LETTSOM.
[The Nibeltmgenlied was probably written in the twelfth oentoij, in part
from earlier ballads, and from legends not always consistent nor made so in the
poem. For the story of the Nibelungs* Hoard, see *' Stories from the North-
em Myths," VoL 1 of this work.]
How GUNTHER WENT TO ISSLAND TO WOO BbUNHILD.
Beyond the Rhine high tidings again were noised around.
There many a maid was dwelling for beauty wide renowned,
And one of these king Gunther, 'twas said, designed to woo :
Well pleased the monarch's purpose his knights and liegemen true.
There was a queen high seated afar beyond the sea;
Never wielded scepter a mightier than she ;
For beauty she was matchless, for strength without a peer ;
Her love to him she offered who could pass her at the spear.
She threw the stone, and bounded behind it to the mark ;
At three games each suitor with sinews stiff and stark
Must conquer the fierce maiden whom he sought to wed,
Or, if in one successless, straight must lose his head.
E'en thus for the stem virgin had many a suitor died.
This heard a noble warrior who dwelt the Khine beside,
And forthwith resolved he to win her for his wife.
Thereby full many a hero thereafter lost his life.
Once on a day together sat with his men the king.
Talking each with the other, and deeply pondering.
What maiden 'twas most fitting for their lord to woo.
One whom him might comfort, and grace the country too.
Then spake the lord of Rhineland : '' Straight will I hence to sea.
And seek the fiery Brunhild howe'er it go with me.
For love of the stem maiden I'll frankly risk my life ;
Ready am I to lose it, if I win her not to wife."
'' That would I fain dissuade you," Sir Siegfried made reply,
'^ Whoe'er would woo fair Brunhild, plays a stake too high ;
So cruel is her custom, and she so fierce a foe.
Take good advice, king Ounther, nor on such a journey ga"
134 EPISODES FROM THE NIBELUNGENLIED.
Then answered thus king Gunther : ''Ne'er yet was woman bom
So bold and eke so stalwart^ but I should think it scorn
Were not this hand sufficient to force a female foe."
''Be still/' replied Sir Siegfried, "her strength you little know.
" E'en were you four together, nought could all four devise
'Gainst her remorseless fury ; hear then what I advise
From true and steadfast friendship, and, as you value life,
Tempt not for love of Brunhild a vain, a hopeless strife."
" How strong she be soever, the journey will I take,
Whatever chance befall me, for lovely Brunhild's sake ;
For her unmeasured beauty I'll hazard all that's mine.
Who knows, but God may bring her to follow me to the Rhine."
" Since you're resolved," said Hagan, " this would I chief advise :
Request of noble Siegfried in this dread enterprise
To take his part among us ; thus 'twould be best, I ween.
For none so well as Siegfried knows this redoubted queen."
Said Gunther : " Wilt thou help me, Siegfried tried and true,
To win the lovely maiden ? what I entreat thee, do.
And if I only gain her to my wedded wife.
For thee I'll gladly venture honor, limb, and life."
Thereto answered Siegfried, Siegmund's matchless son:
" Give me but thy sister, and the thing is done.
The stately queen fair Kriemhild let me only gain,
I ask no other guerdon for whatever toil and pain."
'< I promise it," said Gunther, " and take in pledge thy hand,
And soon as lovely Brunhild shall come into this land,
To thee to wife my sister surely will I give.
And may you both together long time and happy live."
Then each they swore to th' other, the highborn champions bold,
Which wrought them time and trouble thereafter manifold,
Ere to full completion they brought their high design,
And led at last the lady to the banks of Rhine.
I have heard strange stories of wild dwarfs, how they fare ;
They dwell in hollow mountains, and for protection wear
A vesture that hight cloud cloak, marvelous to tell ;
Whoever has it on him may keep him safe and well
\
\
EPISODES FROM THE NIBELUNGENLIED. 185
From cuts and stabs of f oemen ; him none can hear or see
As soon as he is in it, but see and hear can he
Whatever he will around him, and thus must needs prevail ;
He grows besides far stronger ; so goes the wondrous tale.
And now with him the cloud cloak took fair Sieglind's son;
The same th' unconquered warrior with labor hard had won
From the stout dwarf Albric in successful fray.
The bold and wealthy champions made ready for the way.
So, as I said, bold Siegfried the cloud cloak bore along.
When he but put it on him, he felt him wondrous strong.
Twelve men's strength then had he in his single body laid.
By trains and close devices he wooed the haughty maid.
Besides, in that strange cloud cloak was such deep virtue f ound.
That whosoever wore it, though thousands stood around.
Might do whatever pleased him unseen of friend or foe.
Thus Siegfried won fair Brunhild, which brought him bitterest woe.
" Before we start, bold Siegfried, tell me what best would be ;
Shall we lead an army across the sounding sea.
And travel thus to Brunhild as fits a royal king ?
Straight could we together thirty thousand warriors bring."
" Whatever our band,'* said Siegfried, " the same would still ensue :
So savage and so cruel is the queen you woo,
All would together perish by her o'ermastering might ;
But I'll advise you better, high and noble knight.
" As simple knights we'll travel adown the Rhine's fair tide,
Two to us two added, and followers none beside.
We four will make the voyage, true comrades one and all,
And thus shall win the lady, whatever thence befall.
" 1 will be one companion, thou shalt the second be.
The third shall be Sir Hagan, in sooth a goodly three I
The fourth shall be Sir Dankwart, that redoubted knight
Trust me, no thousand champions will dare us four to fighf . • •
Fair maids stood at the windows as they hoisted sail ;
The bark rocked, and the canvas flapi>ed with the freshening gale.
So on the Khine were seated the comrades frank and free ;
Then said good king Gunther, '^ Who shall our steersman be ? "
/
186 EPISODES FROM THE NIBELUNGENLIED.
^' I will/' said noble Siegfried; '< well all our coarse I know,
Well the tides with currents how they shift and flow.
Trust me^ good knight, to pilot you and your company.''
So from Worms and Bhineland they parted joyously.
They had on board rich viands, thereto good store of wine^
The best that could be met witJi e'en on the banks of Bhine.
Their steeds in easy quarters stood tractable and still ;
The level bark ran smoothly; nothing with them went ilL
Their sail swelled to the breezes, the ropes were stretched and tight;
Miles they ran full twenty ere the fall of night.
With a fair wind to seaward down dropped the gallant crew.
Their dames had cause long after their high emprise to rue.
By the twelfth bright morning, as we have heard it told,
The winds the bark had wafted with the warriors bold
Towards Isenstein, a fortress in the martial maiden's land;
'Twas only known to Siegfried of all th' adventurous bandl
Soon as saw king Ounther, wondering as well he might.
The far-stretched coast, and castles frowning from every height,
" Look! friend," said he, "Sir Siegfried, if thou know'st, declare,
Whose are all these fair castles, and all this land as fair.
" In all my life, assure thee, the simple truth to tell,
I never met with castles planned and built so well.
Anywhere soever, as here before us stand.
He must needs be mighty who took such work in hand."
Thereto made answer Siegfried : "Well what you ask I know.
Brunhild's are all these castles, this land, so fair a show.
And Isenstein this fortress; 'tis true what now I say.
Here will you meet. Sir Ounther, many a fair dame to-day.
" I'll give you counsel, heroes I e'en as it seems me good ;
Keep in one tale together ; be this well understood.
To-day we must, as fits us, at Brunhild's court be seen;
We must be wise and wary when we stand before the queen.
" When we behold the fair one and all her train around
Let but this single story in all your mouths be found :
That Gunther is my master, and I am but his man ;
To give him all his longing you'll find no surer plan.
EPISODES FROM THE NIBELUNGENLIED. 137
'^ 'Tis not so much for thy sake^ I own^ such part I bear.
As for thy sister Kriemhild's, the fairest of the fair.
She to me is ever as my own soul and life.
Fain do I such low service to win her for my wife."
With one accord they promised to do as he desired;
None through pride or envy to thwart his wish aspired.
So all took Siegfried's counsel, and sure it brought them good
Soon af ter, when king Gunther before queen Brunhild stood.
How GUNTHEB WON BbXJNHILD.
Meanwhile the bark had drifted unto the shore so nigh
Beneath the high-towered castle, that the king could spy
Many a maiden standing at every window there ;
That all to him were strangers, was what he ill could bear.
Forthwith he asked of Siegfried, his valiant friend and true,
^^ E[now you aught of these maidens, whom here we have in view,
Down upon us looking, though not, methinks, in scorn ?
Whoe'er their lord they're surely high-minded and highborn."
Him answered Siegfried smiling: "Now you may closely spy,
And tell me of these damsels which pleases best your eye,
And which, if you could win her, you for your own would hold."
"So will I," answered Gunther, the hardy knight and bold.
"One see I at a window stand in a snow-white vest:
Around her all are lovely, but she's far loveliest.
Here have mine eyes selected ; Sir Siegfried, on my life,
If I can only gain her, that maid shall be my wife."
" In all this world of beauty thine eyes have chosen well :
That maid's the noble Brunhild, at once so fair and fell.
She, who thy heart bewilders, she, who enchants thy sight."
Her every act and gesture to Gunther was delight.
Then bade the queen her maidens from the windows go;
Them it ill befitted to stand a sight and show
For the rude eyes of strangers ; they bowed to her behest^
But what next did the ladies, we since have heard confest.
They robed them in their richest to meet the strangers' gase;
Such, ever since were women, were ever women's ways.
Through every chink and loophole was leveled many an ey6
At the unweeting champions, through love to peep and pxy.
• •
188 EPISODES FROM THE NIBELUNGENLIED.
There were but four together who came into the land.
The far-renowned Siegfried led a horse in hand.
This Brunhild at a window marked with heedful eye.
As lord of such a liegeman was Gunther valued high.
Then his own the warrior led from ship to shore ;
He of a truth such service hath seldom done bef ore^
As to stand at the stirrup^ when another mounted steed.
Of ally close at the windows^ the women took good heed. .
With them together Dankwart and Hagan came ashore.
'Tis told us in old stories that these two warriors wore
Apparel of the richest, but raven black of hue ;
Ponderous were their bucklers, broad and bright and new.
Unlocked was straight the castle, the gates flew open wide;
Up in haste to meet them Brunhild's liegemen hied,
And bade the strangers welcome to their lady's land,
And took his horse from each one and the shield from every hand.
A chamberlain then bespoke them : '' Be pleased to give us now
Your swords and glitt'ring breastplates." ^< That can we ne'er
allow,"
Hagan of Trony answered, ^<our arms ourselves will bear."
The custom of the castle tiien Siegfried 'gan declare.
'< 'Tis the use of this castle, as I can well attest,
That never warlike weapons should there be borne by guest.
'Twere best to keep the custom ; let th' arms aside be laid."
Hagan, Gunther's liegeman, unwillingly obeyed.
Wine to the guests they offered^ and goodly welcome gave ;
Then might you see appareled in princely raiment brave
Many a stately warrior, on to court that passed,
And many a glance of wonder upon the strangers cast.
Meanwhile to fair queen Brunhild one came and made report^
That certain foreign warriors had come unto her court
In sumptuous apparel, wafted upon the flood.
Then thus began to question the maiden fair and good :
^^Now tell me," said the princess, ''and let the truth be shown,
Who are these haughty champions from foreign shores unknown,
Whom there I see so stately standing in rich array.
And on what hard adventure have they hither found their way? "
EPISODES FROM THE NIBELUNGENLIED. 189
One of her court then answered : ^' I can aver, fair queen,
Of this stout troop of warriors none have I ever seen,
Save one, who's much like Siegfried, if I may trust my eyes.
Him well receive and welcome ; this is what I advise.
" The next of the companions, he of the lofty mien.
If his power match his person, is some great king, I ween,
And rules with mighty scepter broad and princely lands.
See, how among his comrades so lordly there he stands I
"The third of the companions — a lowering brow has he.
And yet, fair queen, you rarely a manlier form may see.
Note but his fiery glances, how quick aroimd they dart !
Firm is, I ween, his courage, and pitiless his heart.
"The fourth knight is the youngest, he with the downy cheek,
So maidenly in manner, so modest and so meek.
How gentle all his bearing ! how soft his lovely cheer !
Yet we all should rue it, should wrong be done him here.
" How mild soe'er his manner, how fair soe'er his frame.
Cause would he give for weeping to many a highborn dame.
Were he once stirred to anger ; sure he's a warrior grim,
Trained in all knightly practice, bold of heart and strong of limb."
Then spake the royal Brunhild : " Bring me my vesture straight,
If far-renowned Siegfried aspire to be my mate,
And is hither come to woo me, on the cast is set his life ;
I fear him not so deeply, as to yield me for his wife."
Soon was the lovely Brunhild in her robes arrayed.
With their lovely mistress went many a lovely maid.
Better than a himdred, and all were richly dight ;
For the noble strangers, I trow, a goodly sight
With them of Bnmhild's warriors advanced a chosen band,
Better than five hundred, each bearing sword in hand.
The very flower of Issland ; 'twas a fair yet fearful scene.
The strangers rose undaunted as near them came the queen.
Soon as the noble Siegfried met the fair Brunhild's sight,
In her modest manner she thus bespoke the knight :
" You're welcome, good Sir Siegfried ; now, if it please you, show
What cause has brought you hither ; that I would gladly know."
140 EPISODES FBOM THE NIBELUNGENUED.
** A thousand thanks, Dame Brunhild/' the warrior made reply,
" That thou hast deigned to greet me before my better nigh.
Before this noble hero, to whom I must give place.
He is my lord and master ; his rather be the grace.
^<0n the Ehine is his kingdom ; what should I further say ?
Through love of thee, fair lady, we've sailed this weary way.
He is resolved to woo thee whatever thence betide ;
So now betimes bethink thee ; he'll ne'er renounce his bride.
^<The monarch's name is Gunther, a rich and mighty king;
This will alone content him, thee to the Ehine to bring.
For thee above the billows with him I've hither run ;
Had he not been my master, this would I ne'er have done."
Said she: ^^ If he's thy master, and thou, it seems, his man,
Let him my games encounter, and win me if he can.
If he in all be victor, his wedded wife am I.
If I in one surpass him, he and you all shall die."
Then spake the knight of Trony : ''Come, lady, let us see
The games that you propose us; ere you the conqueress be.
Of my good lord king Gunther, hard must you toil, I ween.
He trusts with full assurance to win so fair a queen."
''He must cast the stone beyond me, and after it must leap.
Then with me shoot the javelin ; too quick a pace you keep;
Stop, and awhile consider, and reckon well the cost,"
The warrioress made answer, " ere life and fame be lost"
Siegfried in a moment to the monarch went ;
To the queen he bade him tell his whole intent.
"Never fear the future, cast all cares away;
My trains shall keep you harmless, do Brunhild what she may."
Then spake the royal Gunther : " Fair queen, all queens before.
Now say what you command us, and, were it yet e'en more.
For the sake of your beauty, be sure, I'd all abide.
My head I'll lose, and willing, if you be not my bride."
These words of good king Gunther when heard the royal dame,
She bade bring on the contest as her well became.
Straight called she for her harness, wherewith she fought in field.
And her golden breastplate, and her mighty shield.
EPISODES FROM THE NIBELUNGENLIED. 141
Then a silken snrcoat on the stem maiden drew^
Which in all her battles steel had cut never through.
Of stuff from furthest Libya ; fair on her limbs it lay ;
With richest lace 'twas bordered, that oast a gleaming ray.
Meanwhile upon the strangers her threatening eyes were bent;
Hagan there stood with Dankwart in anxious discontent,
How it might fall their master in silence pondering still.
Thought they, " This fatal journey will bring us all to ill."
The while, ere yet observer his absence could remark.
Sudden the nimble Siegfried stepped to the little bark.
Where from a secret comer his cloud cloak forth he took,
And slipped into it deftly while none was there to look.
Back in haste returned he ; there many a knight he saw.
Where for the sports queen Brunhild was laying down the law.
So went he on in secret, and moved among the crowd.
Himself imseen, all-seeing, such power was in his shroud I
The ring was marked out ready for the deadly fray.
And many a chief selected as umpires of the day.
Seven hundred all in harness with ordered weapons fair.
To judge with tmth the contest which they should note with care.
There too was come fair Brunhild ; armed might you see her stand.
As though resolved to champion all kings for all their land.
She bore on her silk surcoat gold spangles light and thin.
That quivering gave sweet glimpses of her fair snowy skin.
Then came on her followers, and forward to the field
Of mddy gold far sparkling bore a mighty shield,
Thick, and broad, and weighty, with studs of steel o'erlaid.
The which was wont in battle to wield the martial maid.
As thong to that huge buckler a gorgeous band there lay ;
Precious stones beset it as green as grass in May ;
With varying hues it glittered against the glittering gold.
Who would woo its wielder must be boldest of the bold.
Beneath its folds enormous three spans thick was the shield.
If all be true they tell us, that Brunhild bore in field.
Of steel and gold compacted all gorgeously it glowed.
Four chamberlains, that bore it, staggered beneath the load.
142 EPISODES FROM THE NIBELUNGENUED.
Grimlj smiled Sir Hagan, Trony's champion strong,
And muttered as he marked it trailed heavily along !
^' How nowy my lord king Gunther ? who thinks to scape with life ?
This love of yours and lady — 'faith she's the devil's wife."
Hear yet more of the vesture worn by the haughty dame :
From Azagouc resplendent her silken surcoat came
Of all-surpassing richness, that from about her shone
The eye-bedimming luster of many a precious stone.
Then to the maid was carried heavily and slow
A strong well-sharpened javelin, which she ever used to throw,
Huge and of weight enormous, fit for so strong a queen,
Cutting deep and deadly with its edges keen.
To form the mighty spearhead a wondrous work was done;
Three weights of iron and better were welded into one ;
The same three men of Brunhild's scarcely along could bring;
Whereat deeply pondered the stout Burgundian king.
To himself thus thought he : "What have I not to fear ?
The devil himself could scarcely scape from such danger clear.
In sooth, if I were only in safety by the Ehine,
Long might remain this maiden free from all suit of mine."
So thinking luckless Gunther his love repented sore ;
Forthwith to him only his weapons pages bore.
And now stood clad the monarch in arms of mighty cost.
Hagan through sheer vexation, his wits had nearly lost
On this Hagan's brother undaunted Dankwart spake :
" Would we had ne'er sailed hither for this fell maiden's sake 1
Once we passed for warriors ; sure we have cause to rue,
Ingloriously thus dying, and by a woman too;
" Full bitterly it irks me to have come into this land-
Had but my brother Hagan his weapons in his hand.
And I with mine were by him, proud Brunhild's chivalry.
For all their overweening, would hold their heads less high.
^< Ay, by my faith, no longer should their pride be borne ;
Had I oaths a thousand to peace and friendship sworn,
Ere I'd see thus before me my dearest master die,
Fair as she is, this maiden a dreary corse should lie."
EPISODES FROM THE NIBELUNGENLIED. 148
"Ay," said his brother Hagan, "we well could quit this land
As free as we came hither, were but our arms at hand.
Each with his breast in harness, his good sword by his side^
Sure we should lower a little this gentle lady's pride."
Well heard the noble maiden the warrior's words the while.
And looking o'er her shoulder said with a scornful smile :
" As he thinks himself so mighty, I'll not deny a guest;
Take they their arms and armor, and do as seems them best.
" Be they naked and defenseless, or sheathed in armor sheen,
To me it nothing matters," said the haughty queen.
" Feared yet I never mortal, and, spite of yon stem brow
And all the strength of Gunther, I fear as little now."
Soon as their swords were given them, and armed was either knight,
The cheek of dauntless Dankwart reddened with delight.
"Now let them sport as likes them, nothing," said he, " care I ;
Safe is noble Gunther with us in armor by."
Then was the strength of Brunhild to each beholder shown.
Into the ring by th' effort of panting knights a stone
Was borne of weight enormous, massy and large and round.
It strained twelve brawny champions to heave it to the ground.
This would she cast at all times when she had hurled the spear;
The sight of bold Burgundians filled with care and fear.
Quoth Hagan : " She's a darling to lie by Gunther's side.
Better the foul fiend take her to serve him as a bride."
Her sleeve back turned the maiden, and bared her arm of snow,
Her heavy shield she handled, and brandished to and fro
High o'er her head the javelin ; thus began the strife.
Bold as they were, the strangers each trembled for his life;
And had not then to help him come Siegfried to his side.
At once by that grim maiden had good king Gunther died.
Unseen up went he to him, unseen he touched his hand.
His trains bewildered Gunther was slow to understand.
" Who was it just now touched me ? " thought he and stared around
To see who could be near him ; not a soul he found.
Said th' other : " I am Siegfried, thy trusty friend and true ;
Be not in fear a moment for all the queen can do."
144 EPISODES FROM THE NIBELUKGENLIED.
Said he : ^^Off with the buckler and give it me to bear;
Now, what I shall advise thee, mark with thy closest care.
Be it thine to make the gestures, and mine the work to do."
Glad man was then king Gunther, when he his helpmate knew.
^^But all my trains keep secret; thus for us both 'twere best;
Else this o'erweening maiden, be sure, will never rest,
Till her grudge against thee to full effect she bring.
See where she stands to face thee so sternly in the ring I "
With all her strength the javelin the forceful maiden threw.
It came upon the buckler, massy, broad and new.
That in his hand unshaken, the son of Sieglind bore.
Sparks from the steel came streaming, as if the breeze befora
Right through the groaning buckler the spear tempestuous broke;
Fire from the mail links sparkled beneath the thund'ring stroke.
Those two mighty champions staggered from side to side ;
But for the wondrous cloud cloak both on the spot had died.
From the mouth of Siegfried burst the gushing blood;
Soon he again sprung forward ; straight snatched the hero good
The spear that through his buckler she just had hurled amain.
And sent it at its mistress in thunder back again.
Thought he, " 'Twere sure a pity so fair a maid to slay ; "
So ho reversed the javelin, and turned the point away ;
Yet, with the butt end foremost, so forceful was the throw,
That the sore-smitten damsel tottered to and fro.
From her mail fire sparkled as driven before the blast ;
With such huge strength the javelin by Sieglind's son was cast,
That 'gainst the furious impulse she could no longer stand.
A stroke so sturdy never could come from Gunther's hand.
Up in a trice she started, and straight her silence broke,
" Noble knight, Sir Gimther, thank thee for the stroke."
She thought 'twas Gunther's manhood had laid her on the lea ;
No I 'twas not he had felled her, but a mightier far than he.
Then turned aside the maiden ; angry was her mood ;
On high the stone she lifted rugged and round and rude,
And brandished it with fury, and far before her flung,
Then bounded quick behind it, that loud her armor rung.
EPISODES FROM THE NIBELUNGENLIED. 145
Twelve fathoms' length or better the mighty mass was thrown,
But the maiden bounded further than the stone.
To wKere the stone was lying Siegfried fleetly flew ;
Gunther did but lift it, th' Unseen it was who threw.
Bold, tall, and strong was Siegfried, the first all knights among;
He threw the stone far further, behind it further sprung.
His wondrous arts had made him so more than mortal strong,
That with him as he bounded, he bore the king along.
The leap was seen of all men, there lay as plain the stone,
But seen was no one near it, save Gunther all alone.
Brunhild was red with anger, quick came her panting breath.
Siegfried has rescued Gunther that day from certain death.
Then all aloud fair Brunhild bespake her courtier band,
Seeing in the ring at distance unharmed her wooer stand :
" Hither, my men and kinsmen : low to my better bow ;
I am no more your mistress ; you're Gunther's liegemen now."
Down cast the noble warriors their weapons hastily,
And lowly kneeled to Gunther the king of Burgundy.
To him as to their sovereign was kingly homage done.
Whose manhood, as they fancied, the mighty match had won.
He fair the chiefs saluted, bending with gracious look ;
Then by the hand the maiden her conquering suitor took,
And granted him to govern the land with sovereign sway ;
Whereat the warlike nobles were joyous all and gay.
Forthwith the noble Gunther she begged with her to go
Into her royal palace ; soon as 'twas ordered so.
To his knights her servants such friendly court 'gan make,
That Hagan e'en and Dankwart could it but kindly take.
Wise was the nimble Siegfried ; he left them there a space,
And slyly took the cloud cloak back to its hiding place,
Returned then in an instant, where sat the ladies fair.
And straight, his fraud to cover, bespoke king Gunther there.
"Why dally, gracious master? why not the games begin,
Which by the queen, to prove you, have here appointed been ?
Come, let us see the contest, and mark each knightly stroke."
As though he had seen nothing, the crafty warrior spoke.
VOL. IX. — 10
146 EPISODES FBOM THE NIBELUNGENLIED.
<< Wbj, how can this have happened/' said the o'ermastered queen,
*' That, as it seems^ Sir Siegfried, the games you have not seen,
Vniich 'gainst me good king Gunther has gained with wondrous
might ? "
The word then up took Hagan, the stem Burgundian knight:
^^ Our minds indeed you troubled, our hopes o'erclouded dark ;
Meanwhile the good knight Siegfried was busy at the bark,
While the lord of Khineland the game against you won;
Thus," said king Gunther's liegeman, '' he knows not what was done."
Thb Fray in Etzel's Hall: Saga of Folkeb thb Mxkstsel-
Wabriob.
[Kriemhild, in revenge for Siegfried's murder, having enticed to her hiiib«Dd*8
court her relatives with a vast retinue of knights, lias set on her Huns to
massacre the latter, who beat them back, and Dankwart, the manbal,
escapes to Etzel's hall.]
Just at the very moment that in burst Dankwart so.
It chanced the young prince Ortlieb was carried to and fro
From table unto table ; the news of that fell strife,
So sudden brought among them, cost tiie fair child his life.
To a good knight then Dankwart shouted loud and strong,
" Be stirring, brother Hagan, you're sitting all too long.
To you and God in heaven our deadly strait I plain ;
Yeomen and knights together lie in their quarters slain."
" Tell me who has done it ? " Hagan fiercely cried.
" Sir Bloedel and his meiny," Dankwart straight replied,
^' And paid too has he dearly ; he's dead among the dead ;
This hand from off his shoulders smote at a stroke his head."
^' Small is the loss," said Hagan, '^ whenever one can tell
That a vanquished hero by hands heroic fell.
Thus it still befitteth a knight to yield his breath ;
So much the less fair ladies should sorrow for his death.
" Now tell me, brother Dankwart, why are you so red ?
Your wounds, methinks, oppress you ; they must have sorely bled.
If he's yet in this country who has harmed you thus in strife.
But the foul fiend aid him, it shall cost his life."
"You see me whole and hearty ; my weed with blood is wet.
But 'tis from wounds of others whom sword to sword I met.
Of whom I slew so many, though furious all and fell,
That, if I had to swear it, th' amount I ne'er could tell."
EPISODES FROM THE NIBELUNGENLIED. 147
Said th' other, " Brother Dankwart, keep guard upon the door;
Let not one Hungarian step the threshold o'er.
Straight, as need impels us, converse with them will I.
Our friends by their devices were guiltless done to die."
" Since I'm to be doorkeeper," replied the champion true,
'< (And well to such great monarchs such service I can do)
As fits me, 'gainst all comers the staircase I'll maintain."
Naught could be more distasteful to Kriemhild's knightly train.
" In sooth," resumed Sir Hagan, " I can't but wonder here.
What now these Huns are whisp'ring each in his fellow's ear.
I ween, they well could spare him, who keeps the door so bold,
Him, who to us Burgundians his courtly tale has told.
'' Long have I heard and often of moody Kriemhild tell.
That still her heart's deep sorrow she harbors fierce and fell ;
Now then let's drink to friendship I king's wine shall quench our thirsty
And the young prince of Hungary himself shall plague us first."
With that the good knight Hagan smote Ortlieb the young child ;
The gushing blood, down flowing, both sword and hand defiled ;
Into the lap of Kriemhild bounded the ghastly head.
At once among the warriors a fearful butchery spread.
Then with both hands uplifted he dealt a stroke at large
'Gainst the grave-visaged tutor, who had the child in charge ;
His severed head, down falling, before the table lay.
For all his learned lessons, 'faith 'twas sorry pay.
Just then at Etzel's table a minstrel met his view ;
Upon him in an instant in wrath Sir Hagan flew.
His right hand on his viol off lopped he suddenly ;
" Take that for the kind message thou brought'st to Burgundy."
** Alas ! my hands ! " cried Werbel, frantic with pain and woe ;
" What have I done, Sir Hagan, that you should serve me so ?
I came in faith and honor into your master's land.
How can I now make music since I have lost my hand ? "
Little recked Sir Hagan if ne'er he fiddled more;
Then round his death-strokes dealing, he stretched upon the floor
Many a good knight of Etzel's, and wide the slaughter spread,
Turning to bale the banquet, and heaped the hall with dead.
Up the ready Folker leapt from table quick ;
In his hand loud clattered his deadly fiddlestick ;
Harsh crashing notes discordant king Gunther's minstrel played :
Ah I what a host of f oemen among the Huns he made I
148 EPISODES FROM THE NIBELUNGENLIED.
Up too leapt from table the royal brethren three ;
They thought to part the battle ere mischief more should be.
But lost was all their labor, vain was all help of man.
When Folker and stem Hagan once so to rage began. . . .
Well fought that day the brethren, well too their men of mighty
But ever valiant Folker stood foremost in the fight ;
Against his foes so knightly himself the warrior bore.
Many brought he among them to wallow in their gore. . . •
Then those without, in hurried to aid their friends within,
But f oimd upon the staircase more was to lose than win :
Out fain would rush the others, and through the doorway fare;
To none gave Dankwart passage, nor up nor down the stair.
To force the guarded portal thronged the Huns amain,
With the clattering sword-strokes the environs rang again.
Then stood the valiant Dankwart in deadly peril there ;
Of that his loving brother took heed with timely care.
Straight to dauntless Folker Hagan shouted loud,
" See you there my brother beset by yonder crowd,
Battered by blades unnumbered, by coimtless bucklers crossed ?
Up, and save him, comrade ! or the good knight is lost."
" Fear not," replied the minstrel, " I'll do your bidding soon ; "
Straight strode he through the palace playing his harshest tune.
Oft clashed the keen-edged broadsword that in his hand he bore ;
The noble chiefs of Khineland thanked him o'er and o'er.
Then to the fearless Dankwart the minstrel knight 'gan say,
" You must have surely suffered sore press and toil to-day.
Sent hither by your brother to aid you I have been :
If you'll without be warder, I'll keep the door within."
Firm the nimble Dankwart stood outside the door ;
All who the stairs were mounting down drove he evermore ;
In the grasp of the warriors their swords clashed fearfully :
The like within did stoutly Folker of Burgundy.
Loud the valiant minstrel shouted o'er the throng,
<< The hall is shut, friend Hagan! the locks are firm and strong.
The hands of two stout warriors king Etzel's door secure :
A thousand bolts, believe me, would not be half so sure." . . .
Just then a knight of Hungary, who saw king Etzel take
His way beside Sir Dietrich, came nigh for safety's sake,
When him the furious minstrel with such a sword-stroke sped.
That at the feet of Etzel straight lay his severed head.
EPISODES FROM THE NIBELUNGENLIED. 149
Soon as the lord of Hungary from the house had come at last,
He turned, and on fierce Folker as fierce a glance he cast.
" Woe's me for these fell strangers ! grievous strait," he said,
"That all my faithful warriors should lie before them dead.
"Ah, woe for this sad meeting! woe for this festal fight !
There spreads within destruction one that Folker hight ;
Like a wild boar he rages, yet but a minstrel he.
Thank heaven ! 'tis well in safety from such a fiend to be.
" In sooth, ill soimd his measures ; his strokes are bloody red ;
His oft-repeated quavers lay many a hero dead.
I know not why this gleeman should spilie us o'er the rest ;
Never had I, for certain, so troublesome a guest." . . .
At the clash king Gunther turned, and to Hagan cried,
" Hear you what a measure Folker, the door beside.
Plays with each poor Hungarian who down the stairs would go ?
See ! what a deep vermilion has dyed his fiddle bow ! "
" I own, it much repents me," Hagan straight replied,
" That I sat here at table from the good knight so wide.
We still were constant comrades not wont before to sever ;
If we again see Khineland, no chance shall part us ever.
" Now see, great king ! right loyal to thee is Folker bold;
Well deserves the warrior thy silver and thy gold.
His fiddlestick, sharp cutting, can hardest steel divide.
And at a stroke can sever the warrior's beamy pride.
" Never yet saw I minstrel so high and lordly stand.
As did to-day Sir Folker among the hostile band.
On helms and clattering bucklers his lays make music rare :
Kide should he good war horses, and gorgeous raiment wear."
Of all the fierce Hungarians that at the board had been,
Now not a single champion remained alive within.
Then first was hushed the tumult, when none was left to fight ;
Then down his sword laid reeking each bold Burgundian knight
Kriemhild fires the Hall.
With that, the wife of Etzel had set the hall on fire.
How sore then were they tortured in burning anguish dire I
At once, as the wind freshened, the house was in a glow.
Never, I ween, were mortals in such extremes of woe.
" We all are lost together," each to his neighbor cried,
" It had been far better we had in battle died.
150 EPISODES FBOM THE NIBELUNGENLESD.
Now God have mercy on us! woe for this fiery pain I
Ah ! what a monstrous vengeance the bloody queen has ta'en 1 ''
Then faintly said another, '' Needs must we here fall dead ;
What boots us now the greeting, to us by Etzel sped ?
Ah me ! I'm so tormented by thirst from burning heat.
That in this horrid anguish my life must quickly fleet."
Thereat outspake Sir Hagan, the noble knight and good,
" Let each, by thirst tormented, take here a draught of blood.
In such a heat, believe me, 'tis better far than wine.
Nought's for the time so fitting ; such counsel, friends, is mine."
With that straight went a warrior, where a warm corpse he found.
On the dead down knelt he ; his helmet he unbound ;
Then greedily began he to drink the flowing blood.
However unaccustomed, it seemed him passing good.
''Now God requite thee, Hagan," the weary warrior cried,
" For such refreshing beverage by your advice supplied.
It has been my lot but seldom to drink of better wine.
For life am I thy servant for this fair hint of thine."
When th' others heard and witnessed with what delight he quaffed.
Yet many more among them drank too the bloody draught.
It strung again their sinews, and failing strength renewed.
This in her lover's person many a fair lady rued.
Into the hall upon them the fire-flakes thickly fell ;
These with their shields they warded warily and well.
With smoke and heat together they were tormented sore.
Never, I ween, good warriors such burning anguish bore.
Through smoke and flame cried Hagan, '^ Stand close against the wall ;
Let not the burning ashes on your helm-laces fall ;
Into the blood yet deeper tread every fiery flake.
In sooth, this feast of Kriemhild's is ghastly merry-make."
'Twas well for the Burgundians that vaulted was the roof;
This was, in all their danger, the more to their behoof.
Only about the windows from fire they suffered sore.
Still, as their spirit impelled them, themselves they bravely bore.
In such extremes of anguish passed off the dreary night
Before the hall yet sleepless stood the gleeman wight.
And leaning on his buckler, with Hagan by his side,
Looked out, what further mischief might from the Huns betide.
EPISODES FROM THE NIBELUNGENLIED. 151
Then thus bespoke he Hagan, ''Let's back into the hall;
These Huns will then imagine that we have perished all
In the fiery torment they kindled to our ill.
They'll see yet some among us who'll do them battle stilL''
Then the youthful Giselher, the bold Burgundian^ spake,
" Methinks the breeze is freshening, the day begins to break.
Better times may wait us — grant it, God in heaven I
To us my sister Kriemhild a fatal feast has given."
With that outspake a warrior, " Aye ! now I see the day.
Since we can hope no better in this our hard assay.
Let each don straight his harness, and think upon his life ;
For soon will be upon us king Etzel's murderous wife."
The host he little doubted but all the guests were dead,
By toil and fiery torture alike so ill bestead.
But yet within were living six hundred fearless wights i
Crowned king about him ne'er had better knights.
The scouts who watched the strangers had now the truth desoriedi
That, spite of all the travail and torment that had tried
The strength of lords and liegemen, they had survived it all.
And safe and sound as ever stalked up and down the hall.
'Twas told the queen, that many unharmed were yet to see ;
" No ! no ! " made Kriemhild answer, " sure it can never be
That such a fiery tempest has spared a single head.
Far sooner will I credit that one and all are dead."
Still longed both lords and liegemen for mercy and for grace,
If they might look for either from any there in place ;
But neither grace nor mercy found they in Hunnish land,
So vengeance for their ruin they took with eager hand.
And now by early morning a deafening hostUe din
Greeted the weary warriors ; sore peril hemmed them in.
From all sides round, against them a shower of missiles flew |
The dauntless band full knightly stood on defense anew.
The mighty men of Etzel came on emboldened more,
For that they hoped from Kriemhild to win her precious store;
And others too would frankly their king's command obey ;
Thus had full many among tiiem to look on death that day.
152 EPISODES FROM THE NIBELUNGENLIED.
Of promises and presents strange marvels might be told.
She bade bring bucklers forward heaped high with ruddy gold;
She gave to all who'd take it; none empty went away.
Never were spent such treasures to work a foe's decay.
The best part of the champions came on in warlike gear.
Then cried the valiant Folker, " We're still to be found here.
Warriors advance to battle ne'er saw I yet so fain^
As those, who to destroy us king Etzel's gold have ta'en."
Then from within cried many, " Nearer, ye warriors, still !
What's to be done, do quickly, whether for good or ill.
Here's not a man among us but is resolved to die."
Darts straight filled all their bucklers, so thick the Huns let fly.
What can I tell you further ? Twelve hundred men or more
To force the fatal entrance attempted o'er and o'er.
But with sharp wounds the strangers soon cooled their fiery mood.
None the stem strife could sever ; flow might you see the blood
From gashes deep and deadly ; full many there were slain,
Comrade there for comrade wept and wailed in vain,
Till all in death together sank Etzel's valiants low.
Sore mourned for them their kinsmen in wild but bootless woe.
Deaths of Haoan and Guktheb: the End.
His vanquished foe Sir Dietrich bound in a mighty band.
And led him thence to Kriemhild, and gave into her hand
The best and boldest champion that broadsword ever bore.
She after all her anguish felt comfort all the more.
For joy the queen inclined her before the welcome guest ;
" Sir knight ! in mind and body heaven keep thee ever blest I
By thee all my long sorrows are shut up in delight.
Ever, if death prevent not, thy service I'll requite."
" Fair and noble Kriemhild," thus Sir Dietrich spake,
" Spare this captive warrior, who full amends will make
For all his past transgressions ; him here in bonds you see ;
Revenge not on the fettered th' offenses of the free."
With that she had Sir Hagan to durance led away.
Where no one could behold him, where under lock he lay.
Meanwhile the fierce king Gunther shouted loud and strong,
« Whither is gone the Bemer ? He hath done me grievous wrong."
EPISODES FROM THE NIBELUNGENLIED. 163
Straight^ at the call, to meet him Sir Dietrich swiftly went.
Huge was the strength of Gunther, and deadly his intent.
There he no longer dallied ; from th' hall he forward ran ;
Sword clashed with sword together, as man confronted man.
Howe'er renowned was Dietrich, and trained in combat well,
Yet Gunther fought against him so furious and so fell.
And bore him hate so deadly, now friendless left and lone,
It seemed past all conceiving, how Dietrich held his own.
Both were of mighty puissance, and neither yielded ground ;
Palace and airy turret rung with their strokes around.
As their swift swords descending their tempered helmets hewed.
Well there the proud king Gunther displayed his manly mood.
Yet him subdued the Bemer, as Hagan erst befell ;
Seen was the blood of the warrior forth through his mail to well
Beneath the fatal weapon that Dietrich bore in fight.
Tired as he was, still Gunther had kept him like a knight
So now at length the champion was bound by Dietrich there.
How ill soe'er it fitteth a king such bonds to bear.
Gunther and his fierce liegeman if he had left unbound.
He weened they'd deal destruction on all, whomever they found.
Then by the hand Sir Dietrich took the champion good,
And in his bonds thence led him to where fair Kriemhild stood.
She cried, " Thou'rt welcome, Gunther, hero of Burgundy. '*
" Now God requite you, Kriemhild, if you speak lovingly."
Said he, '^ I much should thank you, and justly, sister dear.
If true affection prompted the greeting which I hear ;
But, knowing your fierce temper, proud queen, too well I see,
Such greeting is a mocking of Hagan and of me.''
Then said the noble Bemer, " High-descended dame.
Ne'er have been brought to bondage knights of such peerless fame,
As those, whom you, fair lady, now from your servant take.
Grant these forlorn and friendless fair treatment for my sake."
She said, she fain would do so ; then from the captive pair
With weeping eyes Sir Dietrich retired and left them there.
Straight a bloody vengeance wreaked Etzel's furious wife
On those redoubted champions, and both bereft of life.
154 EPISODES FROM THE NIBELUNGENLIED.
In dark and dismal durance them kept apart the queen.
So that from that hour neither was by the other seen,
Till that at last to Hagan her brother's head she bore.
On both she took such vengeance as tongue ne'er told before.
To the cell of Hagan eagerly she went ;
Thus the knight bespake she, ah I with what fell intent !
'' Wilt thou but return me what thou from me hast ta'en,
Back thou may'st go living to Burgundy again."
Then spake grim-visaged Hagan, " You throw away your prayer,
High-descended lady ; I took an oath whilere,
That, while my lords were living, or of them only one,
I'd ne'er point out the treasure ; thus 'twill be given to none.''
Well knew the subtle Hagan, she ne'er would let him 'scape,
Ah I when did ever falsehood assume so foul a shape ?
He feared that, soon as ever the queen his life had ta'en.
She then would send her brother to Ehineland back again.
''I'll make an end, and quickly," Kriemhild fiercely spake.
Her brother's life straight bade she in his dungeon take.
Off her brother's head was smitten ; she bore it by the hair
To the lord of Trony ; such sight he well could spare.
Awhile in gloomy sorrow he viewed his master's head ;
Then to remorseless Kriemhild thus the warrior said,
" E'en to thy wish this bus'ness thou to an end hast brought^
To such an end, moreover, as Hagan ever thought
''Now the brave king Gunther of Burgundy is dead ;
Young Giselher and eke Gremot alike with him are sped ;
So now, where lies the treasure, none knows save Ood and me,
And told shall it be never, be sure, she-fiend, to thee."
Said she, " 111 hast thou quitted a debt so deadly scored;
At least in my possession I'll keep my Siegfried's sword.
My lord and lover bore it, when last I saw him go.
For him woe wrung my bosom, that passed all other woe."
Forth from the sheath she drew it; that could not he prevent;
At once to slay the champion was Kriemhild's stem intent.
High with both hands she heaved it, and off his head did smite.
That was seen of king Etzel ; he shuddered at the sight.
k
AUCASSm AND NICOLETE. 166
" Ah ! " cried the prince impassioned, " harrow and welaway !
That the hand of a woman the noblest knight should slay
That e'er struck stroke in battle, or ever buckler bore I
Albeit I was his foeman, needs must I sorrow sore."
Then said the aged Hildebrand, '< Let not her boast of gain,
In that by her contrivance this noble chief was slain.
Though to sore strait he brought me, let ruin on me light,
But I will take full vengeance for Trony's murdered knight'*
Hildebrand the aged fierce on Kriemhild sprung ;
To the death he smote her as his sword he swung.
Sudden and remorseless he his wrath did wreak.
What could then avail her her fearful thrilling shriek ?
There now the dreary corpses stretched all around were seen ;
There lay, hewn in pieces, the fair and noble queen.
Sir Dietrich and king Etzel, their tears began to start;
For kinsmen and for vassals each sorrowed in his heart
The mighty and the noble there lay together dead ;
For this had all the people dole and drearihead.
The feast of royal Etzel was thus shut up in woe.
Pain in the steps of Pleasure treads ever here below.
'Tis more than I can tell you what afterwards befell.
Save that there was weeping for friends beloved so well ;
Knights and squires, dames and damsels, were seen lamenting alL
So here I end my story. This is t?ie Nibdungers^ Fad.
AUCASSIN AND NICOLETE.
A Song Pobm of the Twelfth Cbntuky.
Trakslatbo bt ANDREW LANQ.
[ AiTDHBW Lano, the digtinguished Scotch scholar, critiOf poet, and tranaUtori
was bom at Selkirk, March 31, 1B44. He was educated at Edinburgh Academyi
St Andrews University, and Balliol College, Oxford, where he took a classical
first-class. In 1868 he was elected Fellow of Merton, and in 1S85 received an
honorary LL.D. from St. Andrews. He is one of the foremost critics in Great
Britain, an authority on folklore, and a constant contributor to periodical liter-
ature. In verse he has written : ** Ballades and Lyrics of Old France ** (1872),
his first publication ; '' Ballades in Blue China ' ; *' Rhymes k la Mode '* ; ** Grass
of Parnassus *^ ; **Ban and Arri^re Ban.** Among his chief prose works are :
*' Custom and Myth*'; ''Myth, Ritual, and Religion**; ''Books and Book-
men '* ; " Letters to Dead Authors** ; " Homer and the Epic*' ; a series of ftdry
books ; the novels " Mark of Cain ** and " The World*B Desire ** (with H. Rider
166 AUCASSm AND NICOLETE.
Haggard) ; tranalations of the Odyssey (with Prof. Batcher), and the Diad
(with Leaf and Myers) ; biographies of Northcote and Lockhart. The monthly
causeries, ** At the Sign of the Ship,*' in Longman*8 Magasine^ are from hii pen.]
'Tib of Aucassin and Nicolete.
Who would list to the good lay
Gladness of the captive gray ?
'Tis how two young lovers met>
Aucassin and Nicolete,
Of the pains the lover bore
And the sorrows he outwore.
For the goodness and the grace,
Of his love, so fair of face.
Sweet the song, the story sweet,
There is no man hearkens it.
No man living 'neath the sun.
So outwearied, so foredone.
Sick and woeful, worn and sad,
But is healed, but is glad,
'Tis so sweet.
So say they, speak they, tell they the Tale : —
How the Count Bougars de Valence made war on Count
Garin de Biaucaire, war so great, and so marvelous, and so
mortal that never a day dawned, but alway he was there, by
the gates and walls, and barriers of the town with a hundred
knights, and ten thousand men at arms, horsemen and footmen :
so burned he the Count's land, and spoiled his country, and
slew his men. Now the Count Garin de Biaucaire was old and
frail, and his good days were gone over. No heir had he,
neither son nor daughter, save one young man only, such an
one as I shall tell you. Aucassin was the name of the damoi-
seau : fair was he, goodly, and great, and featly fashioned of
his body and limbs. His hair was yellow, in little curls, his
eyes blue and laughing, his face beautiful and shapely, his nose
high and well set, and so richly seen was he in all things good,
that in him was none evil at all. But so suddenly overtaken
was he of Love, who is a great master, that he would not, of
his will, be dubbed knight, nor take arms, nor follow tourneys,
nor do whatsoever him beseemed. Therefore his father and
mother said to him : —
AUCASSm AND NICOLETE. 157
*^ Son, go take thine arms, mount thy horse, and hold thy
land, and help thy men, for if they see thee among them, more
stoutly will they keep in battle their lives and lands, and thine,
and mine."
" Father," said Aucassin, " I marvel that you will be speak-
ing. Never may God give me aught of my desire if I be made
knight, or mount my horse, or face stour and battle wherein
knights smite and are smitten again, unless thou give me Nico-
lete, my true love, that I love so well."
" Son," said the father, "this may not be. Let Nicolete go;
a slave girl she is, out of a strange land, and the Captain of this
town bought her of the Saracens, and carried her hither, and
hath reared her and let christen the maid, and took her for his
daughter in God, and one day will iSnd a young man for her,
to win her bread honorably. Herein hast thou naught to make
or mend, but if a wife thou wilt have, I will give thee the
daughter of a King, or a Count. There is no man so rich in
France, but if thou desire his daughter, thou shalt have her."
" Faith I my father," said Aucassin, " tell me where is the
place so high in all the world, that Nicolete, my sweet lady and
love, would not grace it well? If she were Empress of Con-
stantinople or of Germany, or Queen of France or England, it
were little enough for her ; so gentle is she and courteous, and
debonaire, and compact of all good qualities."
Here singeth one : —
Aucassin was of Biaucaire
Of a goodly castle there,
But from Nicolete the fair
None might win his heart away
Though his father, many a day,
And his mother said him nay,
" Ha I fond child, what wouldest thou ?
Nicolete is glad enow !
Was from Carthage cast away,
Paynims sold her on a day !
Wouldst thou win a lady fair
Choose a maid of high degree
Such an one is meet for thee.''
"Nay of these have I no care,
Nicolete is debonaire,
Her body sweet and the face of her
168 AUCASSIN AND NICOLETE.
Take my heart as in a snare.
Loyal love is but her share
That is so sweet''
Then speak they, say they, tell they the Tale : —
When the Count Grarin de Biaucaire knew that he would
not avail to withdraw Aucassin his son from the love of Nico-
lete, he went to the Captain of the city, who was his man, and
spake to him, saying : —
" Sir Count ; away with Nieolete thy daughter in God ;
oursed be the land whence she was brought into this country,
for by reason of her do I lose Aucassin, that will neither be
dubbed knight, nor do aught of the things that fall to him to
be done. And wit ye well," he said, " that if I might have her
at my will, I would bum her in a iSre, and yourself might well
be sore adread."
"Sir," said the Captain, "this is grievous to me that he
comes and goes and hath speech with her. I had bought the
maiden at mine own charges, and nourished her, and baptized,
and made her my daughter in God. Yea, I would have given
her to a young man that should win her bread honorably.
With this had Aucassin thy son naught to make or mend.
But, sith it is thy will and thy pleasure, I will send her into that
land and that country where never will he see her with his eyes."
" Have a heed to thyself," said the Count Garin, " thence
might great evil come on thee."
So parted they each from other. Now the Captain was a
right rich man : so had he a rich palace with a garden in face
of it ; in an upper chamber thereof he let place Nieolete, with
one old woman to keep her company, and in that chamber put
bread and meat and wine and such things as were needful.
Then he let seal the door, that none might come in or go forth,
save that there was one window, over against the garden, and
strait enough, wherethrough came to them a little air.
Here singeth one : —
Nieolete as ye heard tell
Prisoned is within a cell
That is painted wondroosly
With colors of a far countrie,
And the window of marble wrought.
There the maiden stood in thought,
AUCASSIN AND NICOLETE. 169
With straight brows and yellow hair
Never saw ye fairer fair !
On the wood she gazed below,
And she saw the roses blow,
Heard the birds sing loud and low,
Therefore spoke she woefully:
" Ah me, wherefore do I lie
Here in prison wrongfully :
Aucassin, my love, my knight,
Am I not thy heart's delight.
Thou that lovest me aright !
'Tis for thee that I must dwell
In the vaulted chamber cell,
Hard beset and all alone I
By our Lady Mary's Son
Here no longer will I wonn.
If I may flee ! "
Then speak they, say they, tell they the Tale : —
Nicolete was in prison, as ye have heard soothly, in the
chamber. And the noise and bruit of it went through all the
country and all the land, how that Nicolete was lost. Some
said she had fled the country, and some that the Count Garin
de Biaucaire had let slay her. Whosoever had joy thereof,
Aucassin had none, so he went to the Captain of the town and
spake to him saying : —
" Sir Captain, what hast thou made of Nicolete, my sweet
lady and love, the thing that best I love in all the world ?
Hast thou carried her off or ravished her away from me ? Know
well that if I die of it, the price shall be demanded of thee, and
that will be well done, for it shall be even as if thou hadst slain
me with thy two hands, for thou hast taken from me the thing
that in this world I love the best."
" Fair Sir," said the Captain, "let these things be. Nicolete
is a captive that I did bring from a strange country. Yea, I
bought her at my own charges of the Saracens, and I bred her
up and baptized her, and made her my daughter in God. And
I have cherished her, and one of these days I would have given
her a young man, to win her bread honorably. With this hast
thou naught to make, but do thou take the daughter of a King
or a Count. Nay more, wliat wouldst thou deem thee to have
gained, hadst thou made her thy leman, and taken her to thy
160 AUCASSm AND NICOLETE.
bed ? Plentiful lack of comfort hadst thou got thereby, for in
Hell would thy soul have lain while the world endures, and into
Paradise wouldst thou have entered never."
^^ In Paradise what have I to win ? Therein I seek not to
enter, but only to have Nicolete my sweet lady that I love so
well. For into Paradise go none but such folk as I shall tell
thee now : Thither go these same old priests, and halt old men
and maimed, who all day and night cower continually before
the altars and in the crypts ; and such folk as wear old amices
and old clouted frocks, and naked folk and shoeless, and cov-
ered with sores, perishing of hunger and thirst, and of cold, and
of little ease. These be they that go into Paradise; with them
have I naught to make. But into Hell would I fain go ; for
into Hell fare the goodly clerks, and goodly knights that fall
in tourneys and great wars, and stout men at arms, and all men
noble. With these would I liefly go. And thither pass the
sweet ladies and courteous that have two lovers, or three, and
their lords also thereto. Thither goes the gold, and the silver,
the cloth of vair^ and cloth of grisy and harpers, and makers,
and the prince of this world. With these I would gladly go,
let me but have with me Nicolete, my sweetest lady."
"Certes," quoth the Captain, "in vain wilt thou speak
thereof, for never shalt thou see her ; and if thou hadst word
with her, and thy father knew it, he would let burn in a fire
both her and me, and thyself might well be sore adread."
"That is even what irketh me," quoth Aucassin. So he
went from the Captain sorrowing.
Here singeth one : —
Aucassin did so depart
Much in dole and heavy at heart
For his loss so bright and dear,
None might bring him any cheer, '
None might give good words to hear,
To the palace doth he fare
Climbeth up the palace stair,
Passeth to a chamber there,
Thus great sorrow doth he bear
For his lady and love so fair.
"Nicolete how fair art thou,
Sweet thy footfall, sweet thine eyes.
Sweet the mirth of thy replies.
AUCASSIN AND NICOLETE. 161
Sweet thy laughter, sweet thy face,
Sweet thy lips and sweet thy brow,
And the touch of thine embrace,
All for thee I sorrow now,
Captive in an evil place,
Whence I ne'er may go my ways
Sister, sweet friend ! "
So say they, speak they, tell they the Tale: —
While Aucassin was in the chamber sorrowing for Nicolete
his love, even then the Count Bougars de Valence, that had his
war to wage, forgat it no whit, but had called up his horsemen
and his footmen, so made he for the castle to storm it. And
the cry of battle arose, and the din, and knights and men at
arms busked them, and ran to walls and gates to hold the keep.
And the townsfolk mounted to the battlements, and cast down
bolts and pikes. Then while the assault was great, and even
at its height, the Count Garin de Biaucaire came into the cham-
ber where Aucassin was making lament, sorrowing for Nicolete,
his sweet lady that he loved so well.
"Hal son," quoth he, "how caitiff art thou, and cowardly,
that canst see men assail thy goodliest castle and strongest.
Know thou that if thou lose it, thou losest all. Son, go to,
take arms, and mount thy horse, and defend thy land, and help
thy men, and fare into the stour. Thou needst not smite nor
be smitten. If they do but see thee among them, better will
they guard their substance, and their lives, and thy land and
mine. And thou art so great, and hardy of thy hands, that
well mightst thou do this thing, and to do it is thy devoir."
" Father," said Aucassin, " what is this thou sayest now ?
God grant me never aught of my desire, if I be dubbed knight,
or mount steed, or go into the stour where knights do smite
and are smitten, if thou givest me not Nicolete, my sweet lady,
whom I love so well."
" Son," quoth his father, " this may never be : rather would
I be quite disinherited and lose all that is mine, than that thou
shouldst have her to thy wife, or to love par amours.^^
So he turned him about. But when Aucassin saw him going
he called to him again, saying,
" Father, go to now, I will make with thee fair covenant."
" What covenant, fair son ? "
" I will take up arms, and go into the stour, on this cove-
▼OL. iz. — 11
162 AUCASSm AND NICOLETE.
nant, that, if God bring me back sound and safe, thou wilt let
me see Nicolete my sweet lady, even so long that I may have of
her two words or three, and one kiss."
" That will I grant," said his father.
At this was Aucassin glad.
Here one sing^th: —
Of the kiss heard Aucassin
That returning he shall win.
None 80 glad would he have been
Of a myriad marks of gold
Of a hundred thousand told.
Called for raiment brave of steel.
Then they clad him, head to heel|
Twyf old hauberk doth he don.
Firmly braced the helmet on.
Girt lie sword with hilt of gold,
Horse doth mount, and lance doth wield,
Looks to stirrups and to shield,
Wondrous brave he rode to field.
Dreaming of his lady dear
Setteth spurs to the destrere
Bideth forward without fear,
Through the gate and forth away
To the fray.
So speak they, say they, tell they the Tale : —
Aucassin was armed and mounted as ye have heard tell.
God I how goodly sat the shield on his shoulder, the helm on
his head, and the baldric on his left haunch ! And the damoi-
seau was tall, fair, featly fashioned, and hardy of his hands,
and the horse whereon he rode swift and keen, and straight
had he spurred him forth of the gate. Now believe ye not
that his mind was on kine, nor cattle of the booty, nor thought
he how he might strike a knight, nor be stricken again : nor
no such thing. Nay, no memory had Aucassin of aught of
these ; rather he so dreamed of Nicolete, his sweet lady, that
he dropped his reins, forgetting all there was to do, and his
horse, that had felt the spur, bore him into the press and hurled
among the foe, and they laid hands on him all about, and took
him captive, and seized away his spear and shield, and straight-
AUCASSm AND NICOLETE. 168
way they led him off a prisoner, and were even now discoursing
of what death he should die.
And when Aucassin heard them,
" Ha I God," said he, " sweet Savior. Be these my deadly
enemies that have taken me, and will soon cut off my head ?
And once my head is off, no more shall I speak with Nioolete,
my sweet lady that I love so well. Natheless have I here a
good sword, and sit a good horse unwearied. If now I keep not
my head for her sake, God help her never, if she love me more I "
The damoiseau was tall and strong, and the horse whereon
he sat was right eager. And he laid hand to sword, and fell
a smiting to right and left, and smote through helm and na9al^
and arm and clenched hand, making a murder about him, like
a wild boar when hounds fall on him in the forest, even till he
struck down ten knights, and seven he hurt, and straightway
he hurled out of the press, and rode back again at full speed,
sword in hand. The Count Bougars de Valence heard say they
were about hanging Aucassin, his enemy, so he came into that
place, and Aucassin was ware of him, and gat his sword into
his hand, and lashed at his helm with such a stroke that he
drave it down on his head, and he being stunned, fell groveling.
And Aucassin laid hands on him, and caught him by the nasal
of his helmet, and gave him to his father.
" Father," quoth Aucassin, " lo here is your mortal foe, who
hath so warred on you with all malengin. Full twenty years
did this war endure, and might not be ended by man."
"Fair son," said his father, "thy feats of youth shouldst
thou do, and not seek after folly."
" Father," saith Aucassin, " sermon me no sermons, but fulfill
my covenant."
" Ha ! what covenant, fair son ? "
" What, father, hast thou forgotten it ? By mine own head,
whosoever forgets, will I not forget it, so much it hath me at
heart. Didst thou not covenant with me when I took up arms,
and went into the stour, that if God brought me back safe and
sound, thou wouldst let me see Nicolete, my sweet lady, even
so long that I may have of her two words or three, and one
kiss ? So didst thou covenant, and my mind is that thou keep
thy word."
" I ! " quoth the father, " God forsake me when I keep this
covenant I Nay, if she were here, I would let bum her in the
fire, and thyself shouldst be sore adread."
164 AUCASSIN AND NICOLETE.
^^ Is this thy last word ? " quoth Aucassin.
" So help me God," quoth his father, ** yea I "
^ Certes," quoth Aucassin, ^^ this is a sorry thing meseems
when a man of thine age lies.
** Count of Valence," quoth Aucassin, ** I took thee ? "
^^ In sooth, sir, didst thou," saith the Count.
^^ Give me thy hand," saiUi Aucassin.
"Sir, with good will."
So he set his hand in the other's.
"Now givest thou me thy word," saith Aucassin, "that
never whiles thou art living man wilt thou avail to do my
father dishonor, or harm him in body, or in goods, but do it
thou wilt ? "
" Sir, in God's name," saith he, " mock me not, but put me
to my ransom ; ye cannot ask of me gold nor silver, horses nor
palfreys, vair nor ^n«, hawks nor hounds, but I will give you
them."
" What ? " quoth Aucassin. " Ha, knowest thou not it was
I that took thee ? "
Yea, sir," quoth the Count Bougars.
God help me never, but I will make thy head fly from thy
shoulders, if thou makest not troth," said Aucassin.
"In God's name," said he, "I make what promise thou
wilt."
So they did the oath, and Aucassin let mount him on a horse,
and took another and so led him back till he was in all safety.
Here one singeth : —
When the Count Garin doth know
That his child would ne'er forego
Love of her that loved him so,
Nicolete, the bright of brow,
In a dungeon deep below
Childe Aucassin did he throw.
Even there the Childe must dwell
In a dun-walled marble cell.
There he waileth in his woe
Crying thus as ye shall know.
"Nicolete, thou lily white,
My sweet lady, bright of brow,
Sweeter than the grape art thou.
ftft
it
AUCASSm AND NICOLETE. 166
Sweeter than sack posset good
In a cup of maple wood I
Was it not but yesterday
That a palmer came this way^
Out of Limousin came he,
And at ease he might not be,
For a passion him possessed
That upon his bed he lay,
Lay, and tossed, and knew not rest
In his pain discomforted.
But thou camest by the bed,
Where he tossed amid his pain.
Holding high thy sweeping train,
And thy kirtle of ermine.
And thy smock of linen fine.
Then these fair white limbs of thinOy
Did he look on, and it fell
That the palmer straight was well,
Straight was hale — and comforted,
And he rose up from his bed,
And went back to his own place,
Sound and strong, and full of face !
My sweet lady, lily white.
Sweet thy footfall, sweet thine eyes.
And the mirth of thy replies.
Sweet thy laughter, sweet thy face.
Sweet thy lips and sweet thy brow,
And the touch of thine embrace.
Who but doth in thee delight ?
I for love of thee am bound
In this dungeon underground.
All for loving thee must lie
Here where loud on thee I cry.
Here for loving thee must die
For thee, my love."
[Nicolete escapes, hears Ancassin's plaints, comforts him awhile, then hides
in a forest lodge ; on his release he searches for and joins her. They
fly to the kingdom of Torelore, are captured by pirates and parted.
Aucassin finally succeeds Garin in the viscoantship of Biaucaire ; Nico-
lete is taken to Carthage, remembers that she is the king's daughter,
and a marriage is arranged for her. To escape this she dons minstrers
garb and takes ship to Biaucaire ; there she sings of her adventures in
presence of Aucassin, makes herself known, and they are married.]
166 [POEMS OF THE TBOUBADOUBa
POEMS OF THE TROUBADOURS.
TkijriLATKD BT E. TATIX>B and 8. AUSTIN.
The Countess db Die.
[Later twelfth centniy.]
I siNO of one I would not sing^
Such anguish from my love hath sprung;
I love hiwi more than earthly thing :
But beauty, wit, or pleadings, wrung
From my heart's depth, can gain for me
Nor gratitude nor courtesy ;
And I am left, deceived, betrayed,
Of him, like frail or faithless maid.
On one sweet thought my soul has dwelty—
That my unchanging faith was thine;
Not Seguis for Valensa felt
A love more pure and high than mine :
In all beside thou art above
My highest thoughts, — but not in love, —
Cold as thou art, and proud to me,
To others all humility.
Yet must I wonder, gazing there
On that severe and chilling mien :
It is not just, another fair
Should fill the heart where I have been:
Whatever her worth, remember thou
Love's early days, love's fondest vow ;
Heaven grant no idle word of mine
Have caused this cold neglect of thine I
When I remember all thy worth,
Thy rank, thy honors, — well I see
There cannot be the heart on earth
That would not bend in love to thee :
But thou, whose penetrating eyes
Can quickly pierce through each disguise,
The tenderest, truest heart wilt see.
And surely then remember MK
POEMS OF THE TBOUBADOUBS. 167
On worthy on rank^ I might rely.
On beauty, or, yet more, on love;
But one soft song at least I'll try —
A song of peace, thy heart to move:
And I would learn, beloved one, now
Why cold and harsh and rude art thou |
If love hath given her place to pridOi
Or cold dislike in thee preside 7
This, and much more my messenger should say,
Warning aU hearts 'gainst Pride's relentless sway.
Pons db Gapduxil,
[Later twelfth century.]
Of all whom grief in bonds of slavery
Most straitly holds, the veriest wretch am I :
Death is my heart's desire ; he that should bring
That death to me would bring a welcome thing.
O'er life's sad remnant grief alone is spread,
Naught, naught but grief, since Azalais is dead :
Grief, sorrow, sense of loss, weigh down my head.
'rhen hasten, death, my willing spirit cries.
For never could'st thou seize a better, fairer prize.
Well may we weep, well sigh in spirit o'er her,
So fair a creature ne'er was formed before her;
And who in times to come such courtesy,
Such worth, such beauty as hath been, shall see ?
Ah I what avail wit, honor, sprightly guise.
Graceful address, and pleasant courtesies.
And kindest words, and actions ever wise ?
Ah sad, bereaved age ! for tJiee I mourn ;
Small boast indeed is thine, such jewel from thee torn.
Well may we judge that spirits of love on high
Joy to receive her in their company ;
Oft have I heard, and deemed the witness true,
''Whom man delights in, Ood delights in too:''
Then well I trust that in that palace gate.
Mid lilies sweet, and roses delicate,
Blissful she dwells, while angels round her wait,
And sing her praises with loud acclaim, and tell
How fit such beauteous flower in Paxadise to dwell !
168 POEMS OF THE TROUBADOURS.
Youth's gay delights for me no charms bestow ;
This busy world is nothing to me now;
Counts, dukes, and barons in their 'customed pride
Ko more are great ; I turn from all aside,
And thousand ladies cannot fill the void.
E'en heaven itself seems angry, to look down,
Its beauteous gift recalling with a frown:
With her our songs, our mirth away are sped,
And naught remains but sighs and vain desires instead.
And woe is me for thee, lost Azalais !
Henceforth no joy within my soul may stay ;
Henceforth I take my leave of song, for aye ;
Tears, sighs, and sorrow henceforth ever come,
And wrap my spirit in unceasing gloom.
Thus Andrieu, then, I every hope resign.
All thoughts of love, that never shall be mine.
Bebnabd de Ventadoitb.
[Twelfth century.]
When nightingales their lulling song
For me have breathed the whole night long,
Thus soothed, I sleep; — yet, when awake,
Again will joy my heart forsake.
Pensive, in love, in sorrow, pining.
All other fellowship declining :
Kot such was once my best employ.
When all my heart, my song, was joy.
And none who knew that joy, but well
Could tell how bright, unspeakable.
How far above all common bliss.
Was then my heart's pure happiness ;
How lightly on my fancy ranged.
Gay tale and pleasant jest exchanged,
Breaming such joy must ever be
In love like that I bore for thee.
They that behold me little dream
How wide my spirit soars above them.
And, borne on fancy's pinion, roves
To seek the beauteous form it loves :
POEMS OF THE TROUBADOURS. 169
Know that a faithful herald flies
To bear her image to my eyes, —
My constant thought, — forever telling
How fair she is, all else excelling.
I know not when we meet again.
For grief hath rent my heart in twain:
For thee the royal court I fled, —
But guard me from the ills I dread,
And quick I'll join the bright array
Of courteous knights and ladies gay.
Ugonet, faithful messenger I
This to the Norman queen go bear,
And sing it softly to her ear.
Bebtrand de Born.
[Latter half of the twelfth century.]
The beautiful spring delights me well.
When flowers and leaves are growing ;
Ajid it pleases my heart to hear the swell
Of the birds' sweet chorus flowing
In the echoing wood ;
And I love to see, all scattered around.
Pavilions, tents, on the martial ground;
Ajid my spirit finds it good
To see, on the level plains beyond.
Gay knights and steeds caparisoned.
It pleases me, when the lancers bold
Set men and armies flying ;
And it pleases me, too, to hear around
The voice of the soldiers crying ;
And joy is mine
When castles strong, besieged, shake,
And walls uprooted totter and crack ;
And I see the foemen join.
On the moated shore all compassed round
With the palisade and guarded mound.
Lances and swords, and stainM helms.
And shields dismantled and broken,
170 POEMS OF THE TBOUBADOURS.
On the verge of the bloody battle scene.
The field of wrath betoken ;
And the vassals are there.
And there fly the steeds of the djring and dead;
And where tiie mingled strife is spread,
The noblest warrior's oare
Is to oleave the foeman's limbs and head —
The conqueror less of the living than dead.
I tell you that nothing my soul can cheer —
Or banqueting or reposing —
Like the onset cry of " Charge them " rung
From each side, as in the battle closing.
Where the horses neigh,
And the call to ''aid" is echoing loud;
And there on the earth the lowly and proud
In the f oss together lie ;
And yonder is piled the mangled heap
Of the brave that scaled the trench's steep.
Barons ! your castles in safety place,
Your cities and villages too.
Before ye haste to the battle scene ;
And, Papiol ! quickly go.
And tell the lord of " Oc and No " *
That peace already too long hath been 1
Pierre Vidal.
[Died 1220.]
I eagerly inhale the breeze
From thee, sweet Provence, blowing;
And all that's thine delights me so,
Such pleasant thoughts bestowing,
That if thy very name is named
I listen joyously.
And ask a hundred words for one-—
So sweet to hear of thee.
And surely none can name a spot
So sweet in memory biding,
As 'twixt the Durance and the sea
Where the swift Shone is gliding :
1 «»Tm Mid No** > i«. Richard Cobut de Uoa.**
POEMS OF THE TROUBADOURS. 171
There ever fresh delights abound,
There, midst its people gay,
I left my heart witii one whose smile
Would drive each grief away.
Ne'er let the day be lightly named
When first I saw that lady :
From her my joy and pleasure flows;
And he whose tongue is ready
To give her praise, whate'er he saySy
Of fair or good, is true :
She is the brightest, past compare,
That e'er the wide world knew.
If aught of goodness or of grace
Be mine, hers is the glory ;
She led me on in wisdom's path,
And set the light before me ;
In her I joy, in her I sing.
If ever, pleasantly ;
The sweetness there is not my own.
But hers in whom I joy.
GiRATJD DB BOBNBIL.
[Tint half of the thirteenth centarj.]
Companion dear ! or sleeping or waking.
Sleep not again ! for lo ! the mom is nigh,
And in the east that early star is breaking.
The day's forerunner, known unto mine eye ;
The morn, the mom is near.
Companion dear ! with carols sweet I'll call thee;
Sleep not again I I hear the birds' blithe song
Loud in the woodlands ; evil may befall thee,
And jealous eyes awaken, tarrying long.
Now that the mom is near.
Companion dear ! forth from the window looking,
Attentive mark the signs of yonder heaven ;
Judge if aright I read what they betoken :
Thine all the loss, if vain the warning given;
The mom, the mom is near.
172 POEMS OF THE TBOUVilRES.
Companion deax ! since thou from hence wert straying^
Nor sleep nor rest these eyes have visited ;
My prayers unceasing to the Virgin paying,
That thou in peace thy backward way might tread.
The morn, the mom is near.
Companion dear I hence to the fields with me !
Me thou f orbad'st to slumber through the night.
And I have watched that livelong night for thee ;
But thou in song or me hast no delight,
And now the mom is near.
Answer.
Companion dear I so happily sojourning,
So blest am I, I care not forth to speed :
Here brightest beauty reigns, her smiles adorning
Her dwelling place, — then wherefore should I heed
The mom or jealous eyes ?
POEMS OF THE TROUViSRES.
Thibaud, King of Navasbb.
[1201-1263.]
Lady, the fates command, and I must go, —
Leaving the pleasant land so dear to me :
Here my heart suffered many a heavy woe ;
But what is left to love, thus leaving thee ?
Alas ! that cruel land beyond the sea I
Why thus dividing many a faithful heart.
Never again from pain and sorrow free,
Never again to meet, when thus they part ?
I see not, when thy presence bright I leave.
How wealth, or joy, or peace can be my lot ;
Ne'er yet my spirit found such cause to grieve
As now in leaving thee : and if thy thought
Of me in absence should be sorrow-fraught.
Oft will my heart repentant turn to thee,
POEMS OF THE TROUVfiRES. 178
Dwelling, in fruitless wishes, on this spot.
And all the gracious words here said to me.
gracious (}od I to thee I bend my knee,
For thy sake yielding all I love and prize ;
And O, how mighty must that influence be,
That steals me thus from all my cherished joys 1
Here, ready, then, myself surrendering,
Prepared to serve thee, I submit ; and ne'er
To one so faithful could I service bring,
So kind a master, so beloved and dear.
And strong my ties — my grief unspeakable!
Grief, all my choicest treasures to resign ;
Tet stronger still th' affections that impel
My heart toward Him, the God whose love is mine. «-
That holy love, how beautiful ! how strong!
Even wisdom's favorite sons take refuge there ;
Tis the redeeming gem that shines among
Men's darkest thoughts — forever bright and fair.
Babbe db Ybbbue.
[Author of <* Aucaasin and Nicolete** ?]
The wise man sees his winter close
Like evening on a summer day ;
Each age, he knows, its roses bears,
Its mournful moments and its gay.
Thus would I dwell with pleasing thought
Upon my spring of youthful pride ;
Tet, like the festive dancer, glad
To rest in peace at eventide.
The gazing crowds proclaimed me fair,
Ere, autumn-touched, my green leaves fell
And now they smile, and call me goad;
Perhaps I like that name as well.
On beauty, bliss depends not ; then
Why should I quarrel with old Time ?
He marches on ; — how vain his power
With one whose Jieart is in its prime !
174 FOEMB OF THE TROUVfiRSa
Though now perhaps a lUtU old.
Yet still I love with youth to bide ;
Kor grieve I if the gay coquettes
Seduce the gallants from my side.
And I can joy to see the njmphs
For favorite swains their chaplets twine.
In gardens trim, and bower so green,
With flowerets sweet and eglantine.
I love to see a pair defy
The noontide heat in yonder shade ;
To hear the village song of love
Sweet echoing through the woodland glade.
I joy too (though the idle crew
Mock somewhat at my lengthened tale)
To see how lays of ancient loves
The listening circle round regale.
They fancy time for them stands still,
Aid pity me my hairs of gray,
And smile to hear how once their sires
To me could kneeling homage pay.
And I, too, smile, to gaze upon
These butterflies in youth elate,
So heedless, sporting round the flame
Where thousands such have met their fate.
Fraignb.
[First half of the fourteenth century.]
And where then goest thou, gentle sigh,
Passing so softly by ?
Groest thou to carry misery
To some poor wretched lover ?
Come, tell me all without deceit,
Thy secret aim discover;
And whither goest thou, g&aHe sigh,
Passing so softly by ?
POEMS OF THE TROUVftRES. 175
Kow Heaven conduct thee safely oUf
According to thy will ;
One boon aJone I ask of thee,
Wound — but forbear to kiU.
And where then goest thou^ gentle sighy
Passing so softly by ?
Christine db Pisak.
[Bom 1868.]
The choicest of the fleurs-de-lis,
In praise of whom all tongues agree—
He is the one, in every way,
My heart and ev'ry heart to sway.
He is the youngest, noblest, fairest.
Most courteous, mild, the best, the dearest^
The choicest of the fleurs-de-lis.
Therefore it is my spirit^s pride
To love him, loved by all beside ;
And can I coldly be reproved.
Thus choosing one so warmly loved,
The choicest of the fleurs-de-lis ?
Cha&lbs of Orleans.
[1415.]
Hence away, anxious folly 1
Care, depart, and melancholy I
Think ye all my life to measure
Like the past, at your good pleasure?
That, at least, ye shall not do ;
Beason shall be lord o'er you :
Hence away, then, anxious folly I
Care, depart, and melancholy I
Should ye e'er return again
Esther with your gloomy train,
Cursed of the gods be ye,
And the hotir ye come to me 1
Hence away, anxious folly,
Care, and boding melancholy i
176 THE BESCUE OF MILATL
THE RESCUE OF MALAtI.
Bt BHAVABHtJTL
(From ««litiatf and M^Sdhava'': caUed the ««Bomeoaiid Juliet of India.**
Written in the eighth century a.d.)
Persons : MAdhava, the lover; MXlati, the heroine ; KAPALA-KuKDAU^t
priestess of the fearful goddess ChamundX ; Aohoraohanta, priest of
the same.
Sobnb: Inside of the Temple of GhImukda. — Aohoraohavta,
dancing and invoking the goddess^ is aiboiU to sacrifice MdlaiL
MdUUi [dressed as a victim'] —
Unpitying sire, thy hapless daughter dies I
Mother beloved, remorseless fate consigns
Thy gentle heart to agony. Revered
And holy dame, who lived but for thy Mflat^
Whose every thought was for her happiness^
Thy love will teach thee long and bitter anguish*
Ah, my dear friend, Lavangik^ to thee
But in thy dreams I henceforth shall appear I
Mddhava [enters behind"] —
My fears were true — 'tis she I but still she lives.
[Listens to Aghoraghanta^s invocation.
What luckless chance is this, that such a maid|
With crimson garb and garland like a victim
Adorned for sacrifice, should be the captive
Of impious wretches, like a timid fawn
Begirt by ravenous wolves : that she, the child
Of the all-powerful minister, shotdd lie
Thus in the jaws of death? Ah, cruel destiny,
How ruthless are thy purposes !
KapdlorKundald — Fair maid,
Think upon him whom thou in life hast loved,
For pitiless death is near thee.
MdMl— Ah, M^Cdhava,
Lord of my heart ! Oh may I after death
Live in thy memory I They do not die,
Whom love embalms in long and fond embrace.
KapdUjirKundald —
Poor child, her heart is Midhava's.
AghoragJianta [raising his sword] — No matter-
Come what come may, we must delay no longer.
This offering vowed to thee, divine ChimundK,
Deign to accept
THE RESCUE OF MiLAXf. 177
Mddhava [ru$hing forward and maJtching MHaH up in his arma]
Vile wretch, forbear I
KapdlorKundoid'^ The term profane is thina
MdkUi^
Ohf 9ltye me^ save me I ISmbraces Mddhava.']
Mddhava •^ Princess, do oot fear.
A faitbittl friend* who in the hour of death
Finds oourage to declare his Ioys, is near thee.
Be of good courage — on this impious wretch
The retribution pf his orimes descends.
Aghxyraghanta «—
What sinful youth is this that interrupte
Our solemn rite ?
KapdlarKundald — The lover of the maideui
The pupil of E^mandaki, who treads
These precincts for unholy purposes,
And vends the flesh of man.
Mddhava — Inform me, princess,
How has this chanced ?
Mdlati-^ I know not I reposed
At eve upon the terrace. When I woke
I found myself a prisoner. — But what led
Your steps to this retreat ?
Mddhava la^iamed'] ^^ By passion urged,
Incited by the hope my life might be
Yet blest by this fair hand, I hither came
To invoke the unclean spirits of the dead.
Your cries I heard, and instant hurried here.
Mdlati—
And wert thou thus regardless of thyself.
And wandering here for me ?
Mddhava-^ Blest was the ohanoe
That snatched my love from the uplifted swords
Like the pale moon from lUhu's^ ravenous jawe«
My mind is yet with various passions tossed.
And terror, pity, wonder, joy, and rage,
By turns possess my soul.
Aghoraghanta — Bash Brahman boy,
Thou seek'st thy fate. The pitying stag defies
The tiger in the rescue of his doe.
And both are made the forest monarch's prey.
So shalt thou perish, who darest hope to save
The victim of my sacrifice. Thy blood,
As flies the severed head before my scymetar,
>The dragon gappoiMl lo cause aoUpsod by swaUowing the mooo.
VOL. IX. — 12
178 THE RESCUE OF MILATI
Shall stream an offering to the mighty mother
Of all created beings.
Mddha/oa — Wretch accursed,
Impious and vile I Couldst thou raise thy sword
Against this delicate frame, that timid shrunk
Even from the flowers her fond companions cast
In sportive mood upon her — but my arm
Like Tama's^ mace now falls upon thy head.
MiOcM—
Lord of my life, refrain from violence :
His crime is baffled, let him be. Avoid
All needless peril.
KapiUorKundaUi — Holy sir, be firm ;
Destroy the culprit.
Mddhava and Aghoraghanta \to the toomen, each concerning the
otJier"] — Banish yoTir alarms :
The villain dies. What other chance shotdd wait
The issue of the conflict, when the lion,
Whose talons light upon the elephant's brow.
As falls the thunderbolt upon the mountain,
Baises their might against the feeble deer.
[^Noise behind.
What, ho I Ye who are now in search of M^atl,
The venerable priestess whose commands
Are ever wise, enjoins ye to surround
The temple of Kar^M. This can be
The act of none but him who ministers
To the terrific goddess, and the princess
Can be an offering for no other shrine.
KapdlorKundald —
We are surrounded I
Aghoraghanta — Greater is the need
Of manly resolution.
MdlaH— My dear fatherl
My venerable mistress I
Mddhava — I will place
The princess out of peril with her friends,
Then swift return for vengeance.
\^He carries MdlaJti off and returns confronting AghoTaghanJUiJ\
Now let the falchion piecemeal hew thy form,
Bing on thy bones, and cleave thy sinewy joints,
Sport in the yielding marrow, and divide,
Besistless in its fury, limb from limb.
[Exeunt fighting.
^ B^gent of hell and judge of the dead.
RUSTAM AND AKWAN DEV. 179
RUSTAM AND AKWAN DEV.
Bt firdusl
(From the **Sliah-nameh *' : translated by E. H. Palmer.)
[Abul Kasix Mansur **FiBDU8f' ' or *'FiBDAU8i'* (** maker of a Para-
dise**), the Persian Homer, was bom about 041, became deeply learned in his
country*s antiquities, and won early repute as a brilliant and facile i)oet. Mah-
mtid of Ghazni, who ruled Persia from Afghanistan, gave him a commission to
poetize the vast royal collection of Persian legends and traditions ; which he did
in the ** Shah-Nameh ** or Book of Kings, of 60,000 veises, coming down to the
end of the Sassanid dynasty, which at once and permanently became the epic
glory of Persia. He quarreled with Mahmtid over the pay, libeled him savagely,
and for some years was in exile and great danger ; and though at last reconciled,
died shortly after, in 1020, having spent his later years in great poverty.]
Kat Khosrau sat in a garden bright
With all the beauties of balmy Spring;
And many a warrior armor-dight
With a stout kamand and an arm of might
Supported Persia's King.
With trembling mien and a pallid cheek,
A breathless hind to the presence ran ;
And on bended knee, in posture meek,
With faltering tongue that scarce cotdd speak.
His story thus began : —
'' Alackaday ! for the news I bear
Will like to the follies of Fancy sound ;
Thy steeds were stabled and stalled with care.
When a Wild Ass sprang from its forest lair
With a swift resistless bound, —
''A monster fell, of a dusky hue,
And eyes that flashed with a hellish glow ;
Many it maimed and some it slew.
Then back to the forest again it flew.
As an arrow leaves the bow.''
Elai Khosrau's rage was a sight to see :
''Now curses light on the foul fiend's head 1
180 BU8TAM AND AKWAN DXT.
Full rich and rare shall his guerdon be
Whose stalwart arm shall bring to me
The monster, alive or deadl**
But the mail-clad warriors kept their ground.
And their bronzed cheeks were blanched with fear;
With acorn the Shah on the cowards fiowned|-^
^One champion bold may yet be found
While Bustam wielda a spear P'
Ko tarrying made the son of Zal,
Small reck had he of the fiercest fray;
Bat promptly came at the monarch's caU,
And swore that the monster fiend should tall
Ere closed the ooming day.
The swift Rakush's sides he spurred,
And speedily gained the darksome wood;
Nor was the trial for long deferred, —
But aoon a hideous roar was heard.
Had chilled a baser blood.
Then darting out like a flashing flame.
Traverse his path the Wild Ass fled ;
And the hero then with imerring aim
Hurled his stout kamand, but as erst it oame,
Unscathed the monster fled.
''Now Khuda in heaven!'' bold Bustam cried,-*
''Thy chosen champion deign to save!
Not all in vain shall my steel be tried,
Though he who my powers has thus defied
Be none but Akwan Dev/'
Then steadily chasing his fiendish foe,
He thrust with hanger, he smote with brand:
But ever avoiding the deadly blow
It vanished away like the scenes that show
On Balkh's delusive sand.
For full three wearisome nights and days
Stoutly he battled with warlike skill ;
But the Demon such magical shifts essays
That leaving his courser at large to gum,
He rests him on a hilL
RUSTAM AKD AKWAN DEV. 181
But scarce can slumber his eyelids close^
Ere Akwan Dev from afar espies ;
And never disturbing his foe's repose
The earth from under the mound he throwSi
And off with the summit flies.
"Now, daring mortal ! ^^ the Demon cried, -«
"Whither wouldst have me carry thee?
Shall I cast thee forth on the mountain side.
Where the lions roar and the reptiles glide,
Or hurl thee into the sea ? "
"0 bear me off to the mountain side,
Where the lions roar and the serpents creep I
For I fear not the creatures that spring or glide ;
But where is the arm that can stem the tide.
Or still the raging deep ? ''
Loud laughed the fiend as his load he threw
Far plunging into the roaring flood ;
And louder laughed Bustam as out he flew,
For he fain had chosen the sea, but knew
The fiend's malignant mood.
Soon all the monsters that float or swim,
With ravening jaws down on him bore ;
But he hewed and hacked them limb from limb,
And the wave pellucid grew thick and dim
With streaks of crimson gore.
With thankful bosom he gains the strand.
And seeketh his courser near and far.
Till he hears him neigh, and he sees him stand
Among the herds of a Tartar band.
The steeds of Isfendiyar.
But Bustam's name was a sound of dread^
And the Tartar heart it had caused to quake;
The herd was there, but the hinds had fled, —
So all the horses he captive led
For good Kal Khosran's sake.
Then loud again through the forest rings
The fiendish laugh and the tauntix^^ cry ;
182 bubAitAt of OMAR ehattAm of naishApub.
But his kamand quickly the hero flings,
And around the Demon it coils and clingSi
As a cobweb wraps a fly.
Elai Khosrau sat in his garden fair.
Mourning his Champion lost and dead,
When a shout of victory rent the air,
And Eustam placed before his chair
A Demon Giant's head.
RUbIiyIt of OMAR KHAYYIm of NAISHiPUR.
Translated bt EDWARD FITZGERALD.
[Edward Fitzgerald, English i)oet, was bom in Suffolk in 1800, and
graduated at Trinity College, Cambridge, in 1830. He was a man of independ-
ent fortune, who spent his literary life mainly in making versions of Oriental
literature, the Greek classics, and Calderon, largely new work based on the
nominal originals. They include among others the quatrains of Omar Khayyto,
.£Bchylu8*8 ** Agamemnon,*' Sophocles' ^^CEdipus," Caldei-on's ''Vida es
Suefto," and **E1 Magico Prodigioso'' in verse and others in prose, Att^'s
*' Bird Parliament,'' and Jami's '' Salaman and Absal." He died in 1888.]
[GHiAS-UD-DtN Omar KhattIm (Tent Maker), was bom at Naishdpur, Per-
sia, probably about 1050, and died about 1123, living in the reigns of the great
Seljuk Sultans Alp Arsl^ and Malik Shah. He was a great mathematician and
astronomer as well as poet. His verses were entirely in disconnected quatrains
(rubdiy&t)f flung off according to the mood of the moment, and so without co-
herence of thought, though predominantly pococurante in philosophy of life.
Fitzgerald has selected some scores of them and framed them — at best very
freely translated, often only the general idea followed, many torn in pieces and
the fragments put together differently, and some verses added without credit to
Omar at all — into an eclogue of speculation on life and destiny, rather more
melancholy in tone than the genuine Omar, and dwelling less on wine and
women.]
I.
Wake! For the Sun, who scattered into flight
The Stars before him from the Field of Night,
Drives Night along with them from Heaven, and strikes
The Sultdn's Turret with a Shaft of Light
II.
Before the phantom of False Morning died,
Methought a Voice within the Tavern oried^
"When all the Temple is prepared within,
Why nods the drowsy Worshiper outside ? "
i
BUBAITAT of OMAB KHATYAM of NAISHAFtB. 188
lU.
And, as the Cock crew, those who stood before
The Tavern shouted — " Open then the Door I
You know how little while we have to stay,
And, once departed, may return no more.''
rv.
Now the New Year reviving old Desires,
The thoughtful Soul to Solitude retires,
Where the White Hand op Moses on the Bough
Puts out, and Jesus from the Ground suspires.
V.
Iram indeed is gone with all his Bose,
And Jamshyd's Seven-ringed Cup where no one knows ;
But still a Ruby kindles in the Vine,
And many a Garden by the Water blows.
VI.
And David's lips are lockt ; but in divine
High-piping Pehlevf, with " Wine ! Wine I Wine !
Red Wine ! " — the Nightingale cries to the Rose
That sallow cheek of hers t' incarnadine.
VII.
Come, fill the Cup, and in the fire of Spring
Your Winter garment of Repentance fling :
The Bird of Time has but a little way
To flutter — and the Bird is on the Wing.
VIII.
Whether at Naishdpur or Babylon,
Whether the Cup with sweet or bitter run.
The Wine of Life keeps oozing drop by drop.
The Leaves of Life keep falling one by one.
IX.
Each Mom a thousand Roses brings, you say :
Yes, but where leaves the Rose of Yesterday ?
And this first Summer month that brings the Rose
Shall take Jamshyd and Eaikob^ away.
184 BUBAITAT of OMAR KHATTAM of NAISHAPtR.
X.
Well, let it take them ! What hare we to do
With Kaikobrfd the Great, or Kaikhosrii ?
Let Z^ and Rustum blaster as they will^
Or H^tim call to Supper — heed not you.
XI.
With me along the strip of Herbage strown
That just divides the desert from the sown,
Where name of Slave and Sultdn is forgot-*
And Peace to Mahmud on his golden Throne I
XII.
A Book of Verses underneath the Bough,
A Jug of Wine, a Loaf of Bread — and Thou
Beside me singing in the Wilderness —
Oh, Wilderness were Paradise enow !
XIII.
Some for the Glories of This World; and some
Sigh for the Prophet's Paradise to come ;
Ah, take the Cash, and let the Credit go.
Nor heed the rumble of a distant Drum I
xrv.
Look to the blowing Hose about us — " Lo,
Laughing," she says, " into the world I blow,
At once the silken tassel of my Purse
Tear, and its Treasure on the Garden throw.''
And those who husbanded the Golden grain,
And those who fiung it to the winds like Barn;
Alike to no such aureate Earth are turned
As, buried once, Men want dug up again.
XVT.
The Worldly Hope men set their Hearts upon
Turns Ashes — or it prospers ; and anon.
Like Snow upon the Desert's dusty Faoe^
Lighting a little hour or two — is gone.
RUBAITAT of OMAR KHATTAM OF KAISHAF^R. 186
xni.
Think, in this battered Garayanserai
Whose Portals are alternate Night and Day,
How Snltdn jrfter Sultin with his Pomp
Abode his destined Hour, and went his way.
xnii.
They say the Lion and the Lizard keep
The Courts where Jamshyd gloried and drank deep:
And Bahr^m, that great Hunter — the Wild Ass
Stamps o'er his Head, but cannot break his Sleep.
I sometimes think that never blows so red
The Rose as where some buried Csesar bled ;
That every Hyacinth the Garden wears
Dropt in her Lap from some once lovely Head.
And this reviving Herb whose tender Qreen
Fledges the River Lip on which we lean —
Ah, lean upon it lightly ! for who knows
From what once lovely Lip it springs imseen !
xxi.
Ah, my Beloved, fill the Cup that clears
To-DAY of past Regrets and future Fears :
To-morrow /—Why, To-morrow I may be
Myself with Yesterday's Seven thousand Years.
For some we loved, the loveliest and the best
That from his Vintage rolling Time hath prest,
Have drunk their Cup a Round or two before.
And one by one crept silently to rest
xxni.
And we, that now make merry in the Boom
They left, and Summer dresses in new bloom,
Ourselves must we beneath the Couch of Earth
Descend — ourselves to make a Couch — for whom ?
186 BUBAIYAT of OMAB KHAYYAM of NAISHAPtB.
Ah, make the most of what we jet may spend,
Before we too into the Dust descend ;
Dust into Dust, and under Dust to lie,
Sans Wine, sans Song, sans Singer, and — sans End I
XXV.
Alike for those who for To-day prepare.
And those that after some To-morrow stare,
A Muezzin from the Tower of Darkness cries,
" Fools I your Reward is neither Here nor There."
XXVI.
Why, all the Saints and Sages who discussed
Of the Two Worlds so wisely — they are thrust
Like foolish Prophets forth ; their Words to Scorn
Are scattered, and their Mouths are stopt with Dust.
XXVII.
Myself when yoimg did eagerly frequent
Doctor and Saint, and heard great argument
About it and about : but evermore
Game out by the same door where in I went
XXVIII.
With them the seed of Wisdom did I sow,
And with mine own hand wrought to make it grow;
And this was all the Harvest that I reaped —
" I came like Water, and like Wind I go."
Into this Universe, and Why not knowing
Nor Whenc€y like Water willy nilly flowing ;
And out of it, as Wind along the Waste,
I know not Whitliery willy nilly blowing.
What, without asking, hither hurried Whence 9
And, without asking, Whither hurried hence I
Oh, many a Cup of this forbidden Wine
Must drown the memory of that insolence I
RUBAIYAt of OMAR KHAYYAM OF NAISHAPtR. 187
Up from Earth's Center through the Seventh Gate
I rose, and on the Throne of Saturn sate,
And many a Knot unraveled by the Road ;
But not the Master Elnot of Human Fate.
XXXII.
There was the Door to which I found no Key ;
There was the Veil through which I might not see :
Some little talk awhile of Me and Thee
There was — and then no more of Thee and Mb.
XXXIII.
Earth could not answer ; nor the Seas that mourn
In flowing Purple, of their Lord forlorn ;
Nor rolling Heaven, with all his Signs revealed
And hidden by the sleeve of Night and Mom.
XXXIV.
Then of the Thee in Me who works behind
The Veil, I lifted up my hands to find
A lamp amid the Darkness ; and I heard,
As from Without — "The Me within Thee blind I '^
XXXV.
Then to the Lip of this poor earthen Urn
I leaned, the Secret of my Life to learn :
And Lip to Lip it murmured — " While you live,
Drink ! — for, once dead, you never shall return."
XXXVI.
I think the Vessel, that with fugitive
Articulation answered, once did live.
And drink ; and Ah ! the passive Lip I kissed,
How many Kisses might it take — and give I
XXXVII.
For I remember stopping by the way
To watch a Potter thumping his wet Clay :
And with its all-obliterated Tongue
It murmured — " Gently, Brother, gently, pray I "
188 rubAitAt of oiiAR khattAm of naishAfOr.
xxxnii.
And has not such a Story from of Old
Down Man's successive generations rolled
Of such a clod of saturated Earth
Cast by the Maker into Human mold ?
And not a drop that from our Cups we throw
For Earth to drink of, but may steal below
To quench the fire of Anguish in some Eye
There hidden — far beneath, and long ago.
XL.
As then the Tulip for her morning sup
Of Heavenly Vintage from the soil looks up,
Do you devoutly do the like, till Heaven
To Earth invert you — like an empty Cup.
XLI.
Perplext no more with Human or Divine,
To-morrow's tangle to the winds resign,
And lose your fingers in the tresses of
The Cypress-slender Minister of Wine.
XLIl.
And if the Wine you drink, the Lip you press,
End in what All begins and ends in — Yes;
Think then you are To-day what Yesterdat
You were — To-mobbow you shall not be less.
XLIII.
So when that Angel of the darker Drink
At last shall find you by the river brink.
And, offering his Cup, invite your Soul
Forth to your Lips to quaff — you shall not shrink.
XLIV.
Why, if the Soul can fling the Dust aside.
And naked on the Air of Heaven ride,
Were't not a Shame — were't not a Shame for him
Li this clay carcass crippled to abide ?
BUBAITAt of OMAB KBAYTAM OV NAISHlPtfR. 189
XLV.
'Tis but a Tent where takes his one day's rest
A Sulttfn to the realm of Death addrest ;
The Sult^ rises, and the dark Feer&h
Strikes, and prepares it for another Guest
XLVI.
And fear not lest Existence closing your
Account, and mine, should know the like no more;
The Eternal S£ki from that Bowl has poured
Millions of Bubbles like us, and will pour.
XLVII.
When You and I behind the Veil are past,
Oh, but the long, long while the World shall last^
Which of our Coming and Departure heeds
As the Sea's self should heed a pebble cast
XL VIII.
A Moment's Halt — a momentary taste
Of Being from the Well amid the Waste —
And Lo ! — the phantom Caravan has reached
The Nothing it set out from — Oh, make haste I
XLIX.
Would you that spangle of Existence spend
About THB SBCBET — quick about it, Friend I
A Hair perhaps divides the False and True*^
And upon what, prithee, may life depend ?
u
A Hair perhaps divides the False and Tme ;
Yes \ and a single Alif were the clew— ^
Could you but find it — to the Treasure-hoiise,
And peradventure to Thx Mastjbr too ;
Whose secret Presence, through Creation's reiDi
Eunning Quicksilver-like eludes your pains ;
Taking all shapes from M<h to Mibi ; and
They change and perish all — but He remains;
190 BUBAIYAT of OMAR KHATYAM OF NAISSAPtB.
UI.
A moment guessed — then back behind the Fold
Immerst of Darkness round the Drama rolled
Which, for the Pastime of Eternity,
He doth Himself contrive, enact, behold.
LIU.
But if in vain, down on the stubborn floor
Of Earth, and up to Heaven's unopening Door,
You gaze To-day, while You are You — how then
To-MOBROW, when You shall be You no more ?
LIV.
Waste not your Hour, nor in the vain pursuit
Of This and That endeavor and dispute ;
Better be jocund with the fruitful Grape
Than sadden after none, or bitter, Fruit
LV.
You know, my Friends, with what a brave Carouse
I made a Second Marriage in my house ;
Divorced old barren Reason from my Bed,
And took the Daughter of the Vine to Spouse.
LVI.
For "Is'' and "Is-not" though with Rule and Line
And " Up-and-dowx " by Logic I deflne.
Of all that one should care to fathom, I
Was never deep in anything but — Wine.
LVII.
Ah, but my Computations, People say,
Reduced the Year to better reckoning? — Nay,
'Twas only striking from the Calendar
Unborn To-morrow and dead Yesterday.
LVIII.
And lately, by the Tavern Door agape,
Came shining through the Dusk an Angel Shape
Bearing a Vessel on his Shoulder ; and
He bid me taste of it ; and 'twas — the Grape !
RUBAITAT of OMAB KHAYYAM of NAISHAPtfB. 191
LIX.
The Grape that can with Logic absolute
The Two and Seventy jarring Sects confute:
The sovereign Alchemist that in a trice
Life's leaden metal into Gold transmute:
LX.
The mighty Mahmud, Allah-breathing Lord,
That all the misbelieving and black Horde
Of Fears and Sorrows that infest the Soul
Scatters before him with his whirlwind Sword.
LXI.
Why, be this Juice the growth of (Jod, who dare
Blaspheme the twisted tendril as a Snare ?
A Blessing, we should use it, should we not ?
And if a Curse — why, then, Who set it there ?
Tixn.
I must abjure the Balm of Life, I must,
Scared by some After-reckoning ta'en on trust,
Or lured with Hope of some Diviner Drink,
To fill the Gup — when crumbled into Dust 1
LXIU.
Oh threats of Hell and Hopes of Paradise !
One thing at least is certain — This Life flies;
One thing is certain and the rest is Lies ;
The Flower that once has blown forever dies.
Lxrv.
Strange, is it not ? that of the myriads who
Before us passed the door of Darkness through,
Not one returns to tell us of the Boad,
Which to discover we must travel too.
LXV.
The Revelations of Devout and Learned
Who rose before us, and as Prophets burned,
Are all but Stories, which, awoke from Sleep
They told their comrades, and to Sleep returned.
102 BUBAITAT of OMAR KHAYTAM OF NAISHApOB.
»
I sent my Soul through the Invisiblei
Some letter of that After-life to spell :
And by and by my Soul returned to me.
And answered '< I Myself am Heaven and Hell : "
LXVII.
Heaven but the Vision of fulfilled Desirei
And Hell the Shadow from a Soul on fire.
Cast on the Darkness into which Ourselves
So late emerged f rom, shall so soon expire.
LXVIII.
We are no other than a moving row
Of Magio Shadow-shapes that come and go
Bound with the Sun-illumined Lantern held
In Midnight by the Master of the Show ;
LXIX.
But helpless Pieces of the Game He plays
Upon this Checkerboard of Nights and Days;
Hither and thither moves, and checks, and slays,
And one by one back in the Closet lays.
The Ball no question makes of Ayes and Noes,
But Here or There as strikes the Player goes ;
And He that tossed you down into the Field,
Se knows about it all — bm knows — H£ knows I
LXXI.
The Moving Finger writes; and, having wnt^
Moves on : nor all your Piety nor Wit
Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line,
Nor all your Tears wash out a Word of it.
LXXII.
And that inverted Bowl they call the Sky,
Whereunder crawling cooped we live and die,
Lift not your hands to It for help — for It
As impotently moves as you or I.
BUBAITAT of OBiAB KHATYAM of NAISHAPtB. 198
UUUII.
With Earth's first Clay They did the Last Man knead,
And there of the Last Harvest sowed the Seed :
And the first Morning of Creation wrote
What the Last Dawn of Beckoning shall read.
LXXIV.
Yesterday This Day's Madness did prepare ;
To-MORROw's Silence, Triumph, or Despair :
Drink ! for you know not whence you came, nor why :
Drink I for you know not why you go, nor where.
LXXV.
I tell you this — When, started from the Goal,
Over the flaming shoulders of the Foal
Of Heaven Farwfn and Mushtari they flung,
In my predestined Plot of Dust and Soul
LXXVI.
The Vine had struck a fiber : which about
If clings my Being — let the Dervish flout ;
Of my Base metal may be filed a Key
That shall unlock the Door he howls without
LXXVII.
And this I know : whether the one True Light
Kindle to Love, or Wrath-consume me quite.
One Flash of It within the Tavern caught
Better than in the Temple lost outright.
LXXVIII.
What ! out of senseless Nothing to provoke
A conscious Something to resent the yoke
Of unpermitted Pleasure, under pain
Of Everlasting Penalties, if broke !
LXXIX.
What ! from his helpless Creature be repaid
Pure Gold for what he lent him dross-allayed-*
Sue for a Debt he never did contract.
And cannot answer — Oh the sorry trade 1
▼OL. IX. — 13
194 BUBAITAT of OMAR KHATTAM of NAISHAPtR.
Oh Thou, who didst with pitfall and with gin
Beset the Boad I was to wander in.
Thou wilt not with Predestined Evil round
Enmesh, and then impute my Fall to Sin I
T.TTTT.
Oh Thou, who Man of baser Earth didst make,
And even with Paradise devise the Snake :
For all the Sin wherewith the Face of Man
Is blackened — Man's forgiveness give — and take!
LTXXTI.
As under cover of departing Day
Slunk hunger-stricken Bamazdn away.
Once more within the Potter's house alone
I stood, surroimded by the Shapes of Clay.
LXXXIII.
Shapes of all Sorts and Sizes, great and small,
That stood along the floor and by the wall ;
And some loquacious Vessels were ; and some
Listened perhaps, but never talked at all.
Lxxxrv.
Said one among them — " Surely not in vain
My substance of the common Earth was ta'en
And to this Figure molded, to be broke.
Or trampled back to shapeless Earth again."
LXXXV.
Then said a Second — "Ne'er a peevish Boy
Would break the Bowl from which he drank in joy ;
And He that with his hand the Vessel made
Will surely not in after Wrath destroy."
LXXXVl.
After a momentary silence spake
Some Vessel of a more ungainly Make ;
" They sneer at me for leaning all awry :
What ! did the Hand then of the Potter shake? "
RUBAIYAT of OMAR KHAYYAM OF NAISHAPtJR. 196
LXXXVII.
Whereat some one of the loquacious Lot —
I think a Sufi pipkin — waxing hot —
"All this of Pot and Potter — Tell me, then,
Who is the Potter, pray, and who the Pot ? ''
LXXXVIII.
" Why," said another, " Some there are who tell
Of one who threatens he will toss to Hell
The luckless Pots he marred in making — Pish I
He's a Good Fellow, and 'twill all be well."
LXXXIX.
" Well," murmured one, " Let whoso make or buy,
My Clay with long Oblivion is gone dry :
But fill me with the old familiar Juice,
Methinks I might recover by and by."
xc.
So while the Vessels one by one were speaking.
The little Moon looked in that all were seeking :
And then they jogged each other, " Brother ! Brother I
Now for the Porter's shoulder knot a creaking ! "
xci.
Ah, with the Grape my fading life provide.
And wash the Body whence the Life has died.
And lay me, shrouded in the living Leaf,
By some not unfrequented Garden Side.
XCII.
That even m^^ buried Ashes such a snare
Of Vintage shall fling up into the Air
As not a True Believer passing by
But shall be overtaken unaware.
XCIII.
Indeed the Idols I have loved so long
Have done my credit in this World much wrong :
Have drowned my Glory in a shallow Cup,
And sold my Reputation for a Song.
196 THE BIRD PARLIAMENT.
And when like her, oh Sikf, you shall pass
Among the Guests Star-scattered on the Grasii
And in your joyous errand reach the spot
Where I made One — turn down an empty Glass I
THE BIRD PARLIAMENT.
By ATTAb.
(Translated by Edward Fitzgerald.)
[FebId ud DIn, **ATTiR'* (Perfumer), was bom Dear Naishipor, Persia,
1119, and died after 1200, during the break-up of the Seljuk power, according
to one account murdered by a Mongol trooper. Of his many works, only this
has been translated.]
Once on a time from all the Circles seven
Between the steadfast Earth and rolling Heaven,
The Birds, of all Note, Plumage, and Degree,
That float in Air, and roost upon the Tree ;
And they that from the Waters snatch their Meat,
And they that scour the Desert with long Feet :
Birds of all Natures, known or not to Man,
Flock'd from all Quarters into full Divan,
On no less solemn business than to find
Or choose, a Sultan Khalif of their kind.
For whom, if never theirs, or lost, they pin'd.
The Snake had his, 'twas said ; and so the Beast
His Lion-lord: and Man had his, at least:
And that the Birds, who nearest were the Skies,
And went appareVd in its Angel Dyes,
Should be without — under no better Law
Than that which lost all others in the Maw —
Disperst without a Bond of Union — nay,
Or meeting to make each the other's Prey —
This was the Grievance — this the solemn Thing
On which the scattered Commonwealth of Wing,
From all the four Winds, flying like to Cloud
That met and blacken'd Heav'n, and Thunder-loud
With sound of whirring Wings and Beaks that clash'd
Down like a Torrent on the Desert dash'd :
Till by Degrees, the Hubbub and Pellmell
Into some Order and Precedence fell,
THE BIRD PARLIAMENT. 197
And, Proclamation made of Silence, each
In special Accent, but in general Speech
That all should understand, as seem'd him best^
The Congregation of all Wings Addrest.
Ajid first, with Heart so full as from his Eyes
Ran Weeping, up rose Tajidar the Wise; ^
The mystic Mark upon whose Bosom show'd
That He alone of all the Birds Thb Road
Had travePd: and the Crown upon his Head
Had reach'd the Goal ; and He stood forth and said : —
" Oh Birds, by what Authority divine
I speak, you know, by His authentic Sign,
And Name, emblazon'd on my Breast and Bill :
Whose Counsel I assist at, and fulfill :
At his Behest I measured as he plann'd
The Spaces of the Air and Sea and Land ;
I gauged the secret sources of the Springs
From Cloud to Fish : the Shadow of my Wings
Dream'd over sleeping Deluge : piloted
The Blast that bore Sulayman's Throne : and led
The Cloud of Birds that canopied his Head ;
Whose Word I brought to Balkis : and I shar'd
The Counsel that with Asaf he prepared.
And now You want a Khalif : and I know
Him, and his whereabout, and How to go:
And go alone I could, and plead your cause
Alone for all : but, by the eternal laws.
Yourselves by Toil and Travel of your own
Must for your old Delinquency atone.
Were you indeed not blinded by the Curse
Of Self -exile, that still grows worse and worse.
Yourselves would know that, though you see him not,
He is with you this Moment, on this Spot,
Your Lord through all Forgetfulness and Crime,
Here, There, and Everywhere, and through all Time.
But as a Father, whom some wayward Child
By sinful Self-will has unreconcil'd,
Waits till the sullen Reprobate at cost
Of long Repentance should regain the Lost ;
Therefore, yourselves to see as you are seen,
Yourselves must bridge the Gulf you made between
By such a Search and Travel to be gone
Up to the mighty mountain K^, whereon
I A species of lapwing.
198 THE BIBD PARLIAMENT.
Hinges the World, and round about whose Knees
Into one Ocean mingle the Sev'n Seas ;
In whose impenetrable Forest-folds
Of Light and Dark ' Symurgh ' his presence holds ;
Not to be reach'd, if to be reach'd at all
But by a Koad the stoutest might appall ;
Of Travel not of Days or Months, but Years —
Lifelong perhaps : of Dangers, Doubts, and Feais
As yet unheard of : Sweat of Blood and Brain
Interminable — often all in vain —
And, if successful, no Return again :
A Road whose very Preparation scar'd
The Traveler who yet must be prepared.
Who then this Travel to Result would bring
Needs both a lion's Heart beneath the Wing,
And even more, a Spirit purified
Of Worldly Passion, Malice, Lust, and Pride :
Yea, ev'n of Worldly Wisdom, which grows dim
And dark, the nearer it approaches Him,
Who to the Spirit's Eye alone reveal'd.
By sacrifice of Wisdom's self unseal'd ;
Without which none who reach the Place could bear
To look upon the Glory dwelling there."
One Night from out the swarming City Gate
Stept holy Bajazyd, to meditate
Alone amid the breathing Fields that lay
In solitary Silence leagues away,
Beneath a Moon and Stars as bright as Day.
And the Saints wondering such a Temple were,
And so lit up, and scarce one worshiper,
A voice from Heav'n amid the stillness said : —
" The Royal Road is not for all to tread.
Nor is the Royal Palace for the Rout,
Who, even if they reach it, are shut out.
The Blaze that from my Harim window breaks
With fright the Rabble of the Roadside takes ;
And ev'n of those that at my Portal din.
Thousands may knock for one that enters in."
Thus spoke the Tajidar: and the wing'd Crowd,
That underneath his Word in Silence bow'd,
Clapp'd Acclamation : and their Hearts and Eyes
Were kindled by the Firebrand of the Wise.
\
THE BIRD PARLIAMENT. 199
They felt their Degradation : they believ'd
The word that told them how to be retrieved,
And in that glorious Consummation won
Forgot the Cost at which it must be done.
" They only hng'd to follow : they would go
Whither he led, through Flood, or Fire, or Snow" —
So cried the Multitude. But some there were
Who listen'd with a cold disdainful air.
Content with what they were, or grudging Cost
Of Time or Travel that might all be lost ;
These, one by one, came forward, and preferred
Unwise Objection : which the wiser Word
Shot with direct Reproof, or subtly roimd
With Argument and Allegory wound.
Then came The NigJUingcdey from such a Draught
Of Ecstasy that from the Rose he quafiPd
Reeling as drunk, and ever did distil
In exquisite Divisions from his Bill
To inflame the Hearts of Men — and thus sang He: —
" To me alone, alone, is giv'n the Key
Of Love ; of whose whole Mystery possesst,
When I reveal a little to the Rest,
Forthwith Creation listening forsakes
The Reins of Reason, and my Frenzy takes :
Yea, whosoever once has quafPd this wine
He leaves unlisten'd David's Song for mine.
In vain do Men for my Divisions strive.
And die themselves making dead Lutes alive :
I hang the Stars with Meshes for Men's Souls :
The Garden underneath my Music rolls.
The long, long Moms that mourn the Rose away
I sit in silence, and on Anguish prey :
But the flrst Air which the New Year shall breathe
Up to my Boughs of Message from beneath
That in her green Harim my Bride unveils.
My Throat bursts silence and Jier Advent hails,
WTio in her crimson Volume registers
The Notes of Him whose Life is lost in hers.
The Rose I love and worship now is here ;
K dying, yet reviving. Year by Year ;
But that you tell of, all my Life why waste
In vainly searching ; or, if found, not taste ? "
So with Division infinite and Trill
On would the Nightingale have warbled still,
200 THE BIRD PARLIAMENT.
And all the World have listened ; but a Note
Of sterner Import check'd the loye-eick Throat.
"Oh watering with thy melodious Tears
Love's Garden^ and who dost indeed the Ears
Of men with thy melodious Fingers mold
As David's Finger Iron did of old :
Why not, like David, dedicate thy Dower
Of Song to something better than a Flower ?
Empress indeed of Beauty, so they say.
But one whose Empire hardly lasts a day,
By Insurrection of the Morning's Breath
That made her hurried to Decay and Death:
And while she lasts contented to be seen.
And worship, for the Garden's only Queen,
Leaving thee singing on thy Bough forlorn,
Or if she smile on Thee, perhaps in Scorn."
Like that fond Dervish waiting in the throng
When some World-famous Beauty went along.
Who smiling on the Antic as she pass'd —
Forthwith Staff, Bead, and Scrip away he cast.
And groveling in the Kennel, took to whine
Before her Door among the Dogs and Swine.
Which when she often went unheeding by.
But one day quite as heedless ask'd him — " Why ? "
He told of that one Smile, which, all the Best
Passing, had kindled Hope within his Breast —
Again she smiled and said, " Oh self-beguiled
Poor Wretch, cU whom and not on whom I smiled*"
Then from a Ruin where conceal'd he lay
Watching his buried Gold, and hating Day,
Hooted TheOwl — ''lte\l you, my Delight
Is in the Ruin and the Dead of Night
Where I was bom, and where I love to wone
All my Life long, sitting on some cold stone
Away from all your destroying GompanieSy
In some dark Comer where a Treasure lies,
That, buried by some Miser in the Dark,
Speaks up to me at Mid-night like a Spark ;
And o'er it like a Talisman I brood,
Companion of the Serpent and the Toad.
THE BIRD PARLIAMENT. 201
Wliat need of other Sovereign, having f ound|
And keeping as in Prison underground.
One before whom all other Kings bow down,
And with his glittering Heel their Foreheads orown ? ''
''He that a Miser lives and Miser dies,
At the Last Day what Figure shall he rise ? ''
A Fellow all his life lived hoarding Gold,
And, dying, hoarded left it. And behold^
One Night his Son saw peering through the House
A Man, with yet the semblance of a Mouse,
Watching a crevice in the Wall — and cried —
" My Father ? '' — « Yes," the Mussulman replied,
« Thy Father ! '* — " But why watching thus ? " — « For fear
Lest any smell my Treasure buried here." —
"But wherefore. Sir, so metamousified ? " —
" Because, my Son, such is the true outside
Of the inner Soul by which I lived and died.'*
\
Then The ShahrFaloon, tossing up his Head
Blink-hooded as it was — " Behold," he said,
" I am the chosen Comrade of the King,
And perch upon the Fist that wears the Ring;
Born, bred, and nourisht in the Royal Court,
I take the Royal Name and make the Sport.
And if strict Discipline I undergo
And half my Life am blinded — be it so;
Because the Shah's Companion ill may brook
On aught save Royal Company to look.
And why am I to leave my King, and fare
With all these Rabble Wings I know not where? "-
" Oh blind indeed " — the Answer was, " and dark
To any but a vulgar Mortal Mark,
And drunk with Pride of Vassalage to those
Whose Humor like their Kingdom comes and goes ;
All Mutability ; who one Day please
To give : and next Day what they gave not seize :
Like to the Fire : a dangerous Friend at best.
Which who keeps farthest from does wiseliest."
A certain Shah there was in Days foregone
Who had a lovely Slave he doted on.
202 THE BIRD PARLIAMENT.
And cherish'd as the Apple of his Eye,
Glad gloriously, fed sumptuously, set high,
And never was at Ease were He not by,
Who yet, for all this Sunshine, Day by Day
Was seen to wither like a Flower away.
Which, when observing, one without the Veil
Of Favor ask'd the Favorite — " Why so pale
And sad ? " thus sadly answer'd the poor Thing
''No Sun that rises sets until the King,
Whose Archery is famous among Men,
Aims at an Apple on my Head ; and when
The stricken Apple splits, and those who stand
Around cry, ' Lo ! the Shah's unerring Hand ! '
Then He too laughing asks me, ' Why so pale
And sorrow-some ? as could the Sultan f ail.
Who such a master of the Bow conf est,
And aiming by the Head that he loves best' ''
Then from a Fond, where all day long he kept,
Waddled the dapper Duck demure, adept
At infinite Ablution, and precise
In keeping of his Raiment clean and nice.
And '' Sure of all the Race of Birds," said He,
"None for Religious Purity like Me,
Beyond what strictest Rituals prescribe —
Methinks I am the Saint of all our Tribe,
To whom, by Miracle, the Water, that
I wash in, also makes my Praying-Mat."
To whom, more angrily than all, replied
The Leader, lashing that religious Pride,
That under ritiial Obedience
To outer Law with inner might dispense :
For, fair as all the Feathers to be seen,
Gould one see through, the Maw was not so clean :
But He that made both Maw and Feather too
Would take account of, seeing through and through.
A Shah returning to his Gapital,
ELis subjects drest it forth in Festival,
Thronging with Acclamation Square and Street,
And kneeling flung before his Horse's feet
Jewel and Gold. All which with scarce an Eye
The Sultan Superciliously rode by :
THE BIBD PARLIAMENT. 208
Till coming to the public Prison, They
Who dwelt within those grisly Walls, by way
Of Welcome, having neither Pearl nor (Jold,
Over the wall Chopt Head and Carcass roll'd,
Some almost parcht to Mummy with the Sun,
Some wet with Execution that day done.
At which grim Compliment at last the Shah
Drew Bridle : and amid a wild Hurrah
Of savage Recognition, smiling threw
Silver and Gold among the wretched Crew,
And so rode forward. Whereat of his Train
One wondering that, whUe others sued in vain
With costly gifts, which carelessly he pass'd,
But smiled at ghastly Welcome like the last;
The Shah made answer — " All that Pearl and Grold
Of ostentatious Welcome only told :
A little with great Clamor from the Store
Of Hypocrites who kept at home much more.
But when those severed Heads and Trunks I saw—
Save by strict Execution of my Law
They had not parted company ; not one
But told my Will not talk'd about, but dUmeJ*
And then, with drooping Crest and Feather, came
Others, bow'd down with Penitence and Shame.
They long'd indeed to go ; " But how begin,
Mesh'd and entangled as they were in Sin
Which often-times Repentance of past Wrong
As often broken had but knit more strong ? "
Whom the wise Leader bid be of good cheer,
And, conscious of the Fault, dismiss the Fear,
Nor at the very Entrance of the Fray
Their Weapon, ev'n if broken, fling away :
Since Mercy on the broken Branch anew
Would blossom were but each Repentance true.
For did not God his Prophet take to Task ?
" Sev'nrtimes of Thee did K^un Pardon ask j
Which, hadst thou been like Me his Maker — yea.
But present at the Kneading of his Clay
With those twain Elements of Hell and Heav'n, —
One prayer had won what Thou deny'st to Sev^n.*'
For like a Child sent with a fluttering Light
To feel his way along a gusty Night
904 THE BIBD PABLIAMENT.
Man walks the World : again and yet again
The Lamp shall be by Fits of Passion slain :
But shall not He who sent him from the Door
Belight the Lamp once more^ and yet once more ?
When the rebellious Host from Death shall wake
Black with Despair of Judgment, Grod shall take
Ages of holy Merit from the Count
Of Angels to make up Man's short Amount,
And bid the murmuring Angel gladly spare
Of that which, undiminishing his Share
Of Bliss, shall rescue Thousands from the Cost
Of Bankruptcy within the Prison lost
Another Story told how in the Scale
Good Will beyond mere Knowledge would preraiL
Li Paradise the Angel Gabriel heard
The Lips of Allah trembling with the Word
Of perfect Acceptation : and he thought,
'' Some perfect Faith such perfect Answer wrought,
But whose ?" — And therewith slipping from the Cript
Of Sidra, through the Angel-ranks he slipt
Watching what Lip yet trembled with the Shot
That so had hit the Mark — but found it not.
Then, in a Glance to Earth, he threaded through
Mosque, Palace, Cell, and Cottage of the True
Belief — in vain : so back to Heaven went
And — Allah's Lips still trembling with assent !
Then the tenacious Angel once again
Threaded the Ranks of Heav'n and Earth — in vain—
Till, once again return'd to Paradise,
There, looking into God's, the Angel's Eyes
Beheld the Prayer that brought that Benison
Rising like Incense from the Lips of one
Who to an Idol bowed — as best he knew
Under that False God worshiping the True.
And then came others whom the summons found
Not wholly sick indeed, but far from sound :
Whose light inconstant Soul alternate flew
From Saint to Sinner, and to both untrue ;
Who like a niggard Tailor, tried to match
Truth's single (Garment with a worldly Patch.
THE BIRD PARLIAMENT. 206
A dangerous Game ; for, striving to adjust
The hesitating Scale of either Lust,
That whioh had least within it upward flew,
And still the weightier to the Earth down drew,
And, while suspended between Rise and Fall,
Apt with a shaking Hand to forfeit alL
There was a Queen of Egjrpt like the Bride
Of Night, FuU-moon-faced and Canopus-eyed,
Whom one among the meanest of her Crowd
Loved — and she knew it (for he loved aloud)
And sent for him, and said, '' Thou lov'st thy Queen :
Now therefore Thou hast this to choose between :
Fly for thy life : or for this one night Wed
Thy Queen, and with the Sunrise lose thy Head,"
He paused — he tum'd to fly — she struck him dead.
" For had he truly loved his Queen," said She,
" He would at once have giv'n his Life for me,
And Life and Wife had carried : but hjB lied ;
And loving only Life, has justly died-"
Others were sure that all he said was true :
They were extremely wicked, that they knew:
And much they long'd to go at once — but some.
They said, so unexpectedly had come
Leaving their Nests half-built — in bad Repair —
With Children in — Themselves about to pair —
'^ Might he not choose a better Season-^ nay,
Better perhaps a Year or Two's Delay,
Till all was settled, and themselves more stout
And strong to carry their Repentance out —
And then " —
^ And then, the same or like Excuse,
With hardened Heart and Resolution loose
With dallying : and old Age itself engaged
Still to shirk that which shirking we have aged;
And so with Self-delusion, till, too late.
Death upon all Repentance shuts the Gate ;
Or some fierce blow compels the Way to choose.
And forced Repentance half its Virtue lose."
As of an aged Indian King they tell
Who, when his Empire with his Army fell
206 THE BIRD PARLIAMENT.
Under young Mahmud's Sword of Wrath^ was sent
At sunset to the Conqueror in his Tent;
But, ere the old King's silver head could reach
The Ground, was lifted up — with kindly Speech,
And with so holy Mercy reassur'd,
That, after due Persuasion, he abjur'd
His Idols, sate upon Mahmud's Divan,
And took the Name and Faith of Mussulman.
But when the Night fell, in his Tent alone
The poor old King was heard to weep and groan
And smite his Bosom ; which, when Mahmud knew,
He went to him and said, '' Lo, if Thou rue
Thy lost Dominion, Thou shalt wear the Ring
Of thrice as large a Realm." But the dark King
Still wept, and Ashes on his Forehead threw,
And cried, " Not for my Kingdom lost I rue ;
But thinking how at the Last Day, will stand
The Prophet with The Volume in his Hand,
And ask of me, ' How was't that, in thy Day
Of Glory, Thou didst turn from Me and slay
My People ; but soon as thy Lifidel
Before my True Believer's Army fell
Like Com before the Reaper — thou didst own
His Sword who scoutedst Mef Of seed so sown
What profitable Harvest should be grown ? " . . .
The Moths had long been exiled from the Flame
They worship : so to solemn Council came,
And voted One of them by Lot be sent
To find their Idol. One was chosen : went.
And after a long Circuit in sheer Gloom,
Seeing, he thought, the Taper in a Room
Flew back at once to say so. But the chief
Of Mothist^ slighted so slight Belief,
And sent another Messenger, who flew
Up to the House, in at the window, through
The Flame itself ; and back the Message brings.
With yet no sign of Conflict on his wings.
Then went a Third, who spurred with true Desire^
Plunging at once into the sacred Fire,
Folded his Wings within, till he became
One Color and one Substance with the Flame.
He only knew the Flame who in it bum'd ;
And only He could tell who ne'er to tell returned.
APOLOGUES AND MORALS OF SA'DL 207
APOLOGUES AND MORALS OF SA'DL
[From the " Gulistan.*']
Tbakslatxd bt FRANCIS J. OLADWIN.
[Sa'di, the afismned name of Shaikh Muslih al Din, one of the greatest of
Persian poets, was bom at Sbiraz about 1100, a descendant of All, Mohanmied*8
son-in-law. He studied at Bagdad, whence he made his first of fifteen pilgrim-
ages to Mecca, and traveled extensively in Europe, Asia, and Africa. While in
Syria he was taken prisoner by the Crusaders and compelled to work on the
fortifications of Tripoli, but was ransomed by a merchant of Aleppo, who gave
him his daughter in marriage. Sa^di lived to an extreme old age, and after his
death was honored by his native city with a mausoleum, which is still visited.
His most celebrated work is the ^^ Gulistan,*' or Rose Garden, a collection of
unconnected moral stories (and some in a western view immoral, or at least over-
cunning and cynical), historical and fictitious, with an admixture of verse.]
Taking Thought for the Future.
A PERSON had arrived at the head of his profession in the
art of wrestling; he knew three himdred and sixty capital
sleights in this art, and every day exhibited something new ; but
having a sincere regard for a beautiful youth, one of his scholars,
he taught him three hundred and fifty-nine sleights, reserving,
however, one sleight to himself. The youth excelled so much
in skill and in strength that no one was able to cope with him.
He at length boasted, before the Sultan, that the superiority
which he allowed his master to maintain over him was out of
respect to his years, and the consideration of having been his
instructor ; for otherwise he was not inferior in strength, and
was his equal in point of skill. The king did not approve of
this disrespectful conduct, and commanded that there should
be a trial of skill. An extensive spot was appointed for the
occasion. The ministers of state, and other grandees of the
court, were in attendance. The youth, like a lustful elephant,
entered with a percussion that would have removed from its
base a moimtain of iron. The master, being sensible that the
youth was his superior in strength, attacked with the sleight
which he had kept to himself. The youth not being able to
repel it, the master with both hands lifted him from the ground,
and, raising him over his head, flimg him on the earth. The
multitude shouted. The king commanded that a dress, and a
reward in money, should be bestowed on the master, and
reproved and derided the youth for having presumed to put
208 APOLOGUES AND MOKALS OP SA'DL
himself in competition with his benefactor, and for having
failed in the attempt. He said, " O king, my maHter did not
gain the victory over me through strength or skill ; but there
remained a small part in the art of wrestling which he had
wittiheld from me, and by that small feint he got tlie better of
me." The master observed : " I reserved it for such an occasion
as the present; the sages having said. Put not yourself so much
in the power of your friend, that if he should be disposed to be
inimical, he may be able to effect his purixwe. Have you not
heard what was said by a person who had suffered injury from
one whom he had educated '? Either there never was any grati-
tude in the world, or else no one at this time pratices it. I
never taught any one the art of archery, who in the end did not
make a butt of me."
They have related that a certain vizier had shown clemency
towards those of an inferior degree, and had sought to accom-
modate every one. It happened that, having fallen under the
king's displeasure, tliey all exerted their interest to obtain his
release, and those to whose custody he was committed showed
him great indulgence in guarding him, and the other grandees
represented his virtues to the king, till at length the monarch
pardoned hia fault.
A righteous man, when apprised of the circumstances, said :
" Sell even your patrimonial garden to gain the hearts of your
friends. In order to boil your wellwisher's pot, it is advisable
to burn all your furniture. Do good even unto the wicked ;
for it is beat to close the dog's mouth with a morsel."
One of the sons of Haroon ur Rusheed went to his father in
it rage, complaining that the eon of a certain officer had spoken
disrespectfully of his mother. Haroou asked his ministers what
was the just punishment for such an offense. One was for
having him put to death ; another said that hia tongue ought
to be cut out : and another, that he should be fined and banished.
Haroon said, " My son, charity requires that you should pardon
him ; but if you have not strength of mind to do this, then abuse
his mother in return, but not so much as to exceed the bounds
of vengeance, for then the injury would be imputable to our
side." In the opinion of the wise, he is not a brave man who
combats with a furious elephant ; but he is a man indeed, who,
even in wrath, uttereth not idle words. A man of a bad dis-
APOLOGUES AND MORALS OF SA'DL 209
position abused another, who took it patiently, and called him
a hopeful youth. " I am worse than you can say of me, for I
know my own defects better than you can possibly discover
them."
There were two brothers, one of whom was in the service
of the king, and the other ate the bread of his own industry.
Once the rich man said to his poor brother, " Why do you not
enter into the service of the king, to relieve yourself from the
affliction of labor ? " He asked: " And why do you not work,
that you may be relieved from the baseness of servitude ? for
the sages have said that to eat one's bread, and to sit down at
ease, is preferable to wearing a golden girdle and standing up
in service ; to use your hands in making mortar of quicklime
is preferable to placing them on your breast in attendance on
the Umeer. Precious life has been spent in these cares. What
shall I eat in the summer, and with what shall I be clothed in
the winter ? O ignoble belly, satisfy yourself with a loaf of
bread, that you may not bend your back in servitude."
Somebody brought to Noushirvan the Just the good tidings
that the God of majesty and glory has taken away such an one,
who was your enemy. He asked : " Have you heard that he
will by any means spare me ? The death of my enemy is no
cause of joy to me, since neither is my own life eternal."
Contentment.
I heard of a Durwaish [mendicant priest] who was suffering
great distress from poverty, and sewing patch upon patch, but
who comforted himself with the following verse, " I am con-
tented with stale bread, and a coarse woolen frock, since it is
better to bear the weight of one's own necessities than to suffer
the load of obligation from mankind." Somebody said to him :
" Why do you sit quiet, whilst such an one in this city has a
liberal mind, and possesses universal benevolence, being ever
willing to assist the pious, and always ready to comfort every
heart ? H he were apprised of your condition, he would con-
sider it an obligation to satisfy your wants." He replied, " Be
silent, for it is better to die of want than to expose our neces-
sities ; for they have said that to sew patch upon patch and be
patient, is preferable to writing a petition to a great man for
VOL. IX, — 14
210 APOLOGUES AND MORALS OF SADL
clothing." Of a truth, it is equal to the torments of hell to
enter into paradise by the help of one's neighbor.
Silence is Golden.
A sensible young man, who had made considerable progress
in learning and virtue, was at the same time so discreet, that he
would sit in the company of learned men without uttering a
word. Once his father said to him, " My son, why do you not
also say something of what you know ? " He replied : " I fear
lest they should question me about something of which I am
ignorant, whereby I should suffer shame.
" Have you not heard of a Sufi that was driving some nails
into his sandals, when an officer, laying hold of his sleeve, said,
* Come and shoe my horse ? ' Whilst you are silent, no one has
any business with you ; but when you speak, you must be ready
with your proofs."
A certain poet went to the chief of a gang of robbers, and re-
cited verses in his praise : the chief oixlered him to be stripped of
his clothes and expelled the village. The dogs attacking him in
his rear, he wanted to take up some stones, but they were frozen
to the ground. Thus distressed he said, " What a vile set of men
are these, who let loose their dogs and fasten their stones."
The chief, having heard him from a window, laughed and
said, " O wise man, ask a boon of me."
He answered : " I want my garment, if you will vouchsafe to
bestow it. A man entertains hopes from those who are virtuous.
I have no expectation from your virtue, only do me no injury.
We are satisfied with your benevolence in suffering us to depart."
The chief of the robbers took compassion on him, ordered
his garment to be restored, and added to it a robe of fur, to-
gether with some direms.
RcxES FOR Conduct in Life.
Two persons took trouble in vain, and used fruitless en-
deavors, — he who acquired wealth, without enjoying it, and
he wlio taught wisdom, but did not practice it. How much
soever you may study science, when you do not act wisely,
you are ignorant. The beast whom they load with books is
not profoundly learned and ^vise : what knoweth his empty
skull whether he carrieth firewood or books ?
APOLOGUES AND MORALS OF SA'DI. 211
Science is to be used for the preservation of religion^ and
not for the acquisition of wealth. Whosoever prostituted his
abstinence, reputation, and learning for gain, formed a granary
and then consumed it entirely.
A learned man, without temperance, is a blind man carry-
ing a link : he showeth the road to others, but doth not guide
himself. He who through inadvertency trifled with life, threw
away his money without purchasing anything.
Three things are not permanent without three things :
wealth mthout commerce, science without argument, nor a
kingdom without government.
Showing mercy to the wicked is doing injury to the good,
and pardoning oppressors is injuring the oppressed. When
you connect yourself with base men, and show them favor,
they commit crimes with your power, whereby you participate
in their guilt.
Reveal not to a friend every secret that you possess, for
how can you tell but what he may some time or other become
your enemy ? Likewise inflict not on an enemy every injury
in your power, for he may afterwards become your friend.
The matter which you wish to preserve as a secret, impart it
not to any one, although he may be worthy of confidence ; for
no one will be so true to your secret as yourself.
It is safer to be silent than to reveal one's secret to any
one, and telling him not to mention it. O good man I stop
the water at the spring head, for when it is in full stream
you cannot arrest it. You should never speak a word in
secret which may not be related in every company.
Speak in such manner between two enemies, that, should
they afterwards become friends, you may not be put to the
blush. Hostility between two people is like fire, and the evil-
fated backbiter supplies fuel. Afterwards, when they are re-
conciled together, the backbiter is hated and despised by both
parties. To kindle a flame between two persons, is to bum
yourself inconsiderately in the midst.
When you see an enemy weak, twist not your whiskers in
boasting : there is marrow in every bone, and every coat covers
a man.
212 APOLOGUES AND MORALS OF SA'DL
Anger, when excessive, createth terror ; and kindness out
of season destroys authority. Be not so severe as to cause
disgust, nor so lenient as to encourage audacity. Severity and
lenity should be tempered together, — like the surgeon, who
when he uses the lancet applies also a plaster. A wise man
carries not severity to excess, nor suffers such relaxation as
will lessen his own dignity. He overrates not himself ; neither
doth he altogether neglect his consequence. A shepherd said to
his father, ^^O thou who art wise, teach me one maxim from
your experience." He replied, " Be complacent, but not to that
degree that they may insult you with the sharp teeth of the wolf."
A wicked man is a captive in the hand of the enemy, for
wherever he goeth he cannot escape from the clutches of his
own punishment. If the wicked man should escape to heaven
from the hand of calamity, he would continue in calamity from
the sense of his own evil disposition.
Bruise the serpent's head with the hand of your enemy,
which cannot fail of producing one of these two advantages.
If the enemy succeeds, you have killed the snake ; and if the
latter prevails, you have got rid of your enemy.
In the day of battle consider not yourself safe because your
adversary is weak ; for he who becomes desperate will take out
the lion's brains.
When you have anything to communicate that will distress
the heart of the person whom it concerns, be silent, in order
that he may hear from some one else. O nightingale ! bring
thou the glad tidings of spring, and leave bad news to the owl I
Take care how you listen to the voice of the flatterer, who,
in return for his little stock, expects to derive from you con-
siderable advantage. If one day you do not comply with
his wishes, he imputes to you two hundred defects instead of
perfections.
Unless some one points out to an orator his defects, his dis-
course will never be correct. Be not vain of the elegance of
your discourse from the commendation of an ignorant person,
neither upon the strength of your own judgment.
Every one thinks his own wisdom perfect, and his own child
beautiful. A Jew and a Mohammedan were disputing in a
APOLOGUES AND MORALS OF SA'DL 213
manner that made me laugh. The Mohammedan said in wrath,
" If this deed of conveyance is not authentic, may God cause
me to die a Jew ! " The Jew said, " I make oath on the Pen-
tateuch, and if I swear falsely, I am a Mohammedan like you."
If wisdom was to cease throughout the world, no one would
suspect himself of ignorance.
He who when he hath the power doeth not good, when he
loses the means will suffer distress. There is not a more un-
fortunate wretch than the oppressor ; for in the day of adver-
sity, nobody is his friend.
Life depends upon the support of a single breath, and
worldly existence is between two non-existences. Those who
sell religion for the world are asses ; they sell Joseph, and get
nothing in return.
I have heard that in the land of the East they are forty
years in making a china cup : they make a hundred in a day
at Bagdad, and consequently you see the meanness of the
price. A chicken, as soon as it comes out of the egg, seeks
its food; but an infant hath not reason and discrimination.
That which was something all at once, never arrives at much
perfection; and the other by degrees surpasses all things in
power and excellence. Glass is everywhere, and therefore
of no value ; the ruby is obtained with diflSculty, and on that
account is precious.
Publish not men's secret faults ; for by disgracing them you
make yourself of no repute.
If every night was a night of power, many of such nights
would be disregarded. If every stone was a Budukshan ruby,
the ruby and the pebble would be of equal value.
The vicious cannot endure the sight of the virtuous ; in the
same manner as the curs of the market howl at a hunting dog,
but dare not approach him.
When a mean wretch cannot vie with another in virtue, out
of his wickedness he begins to slander. The abject envious
wretch will slander the virtuous man when absent ; but when
brought face to face, his loquacious tongue becomes dumb.
The wise man who engages in a controversy with those who
214 APOLOGUES AND MORALS OF SADL
are ignorant of the subject, should not entertain any expecta*
tion of gaining credit. If an ignorant man, by his loquacity,
should overpower a wise man, it is not to be wondered at, be-
cause a common stone will break a jewel. Why is it surprising
if a nightingale should not sing, when a crow is in the same
cage? If a virtuous man is injured by a vagabond, he ought
not to be sorry, or angry. If a worthless stone bruise a golden
cup, its own worth is not thereby increased, nor the value of
the gold lessened.
If a wise man, falling in company with mean people, does
not get credit for his discourse, be not amazed ; for the sound
of the harp cannot overpower the noise of the drum ; and the
fragrance of ambergris is overcome by fetid garlic. The igno-
rant wretch was proud of his loud voice, because he had impu-
dently confounded the man of understanding. Are you igno-
rant that the musical mode of Ilijaz is confounded by the noise
of the warrior's drum ? If a jewel falls into the mud, it is still
the same precious stone ; and if dust flies up to the sky, it
retains its original baseness. A capacity without education is
deplorable, and education without capacity is thrown away.
Ashes, although of high origin, fire being of a noble nature, yet
having no intrinsic worth, are no better than dust. Sugar ob-
tains not its value from the cane, but from its innate quality.
Musk has the fragrance in itself, and not from being called a
perfume by the druggist. The wise man is like the druggist's
chest, — silent, but full of virtues ; and the blockhead resem-
bles the warrior's drum, — noisy, but an empty prattler. A
wise man in the company of those who are ignorant, has been
compared by the sages to a beautiful girl in the company of
blind men, or to the Koran in the house of an infidel. When
the land of Canaan was without virtue, the birth of Joseph did
not increase its dignity. Show your virtue, if you possess no-
bility ; for the rose sprang from the thorn, and Abraham from
Azur.
A friend whom you have been gaining during your whole
life, you ought not to he displeased with in a moment. A stone
is many years becoming a ruby ; take care that you do not de-
stroy it in an instant against another stone.
Reason is under the power of sense ; as a man becomes weak
in the hand of an artful woman. Shut the door of that bouse
APOLOGUES AND MORALS OF SA'DL 216
of pleasure, which you hear resounding with the loud voioe of
a woman.
Two things are morally impossible : to enjoy more than
Providence has allotted, or to die before the appointed time.
Destiny will not be altered by our uttering a thousand lamenta-
tions and sighs, nor by our praises or complaints. The angel
who presides over the treasury of winds, what does he care if
the lamp of an old widow is extinguished ?
The envious man begrudgeth the bountiful goodness of God,
and is inimical to those who are innocent.
I heard a little fellow with dry brains speaking disrespect-
fully of a person of rank. I said, " O sir, if you are unfortu-
nate, what crime have fortunate men committed ? " Wish not
ill to the envious man, for the unfortunate wretch is a calamity
to himself. Where is the need of your sliowing enmity towards
him who has such an adversary at his heels ?
A learned man without works is a bee without honey. Say
to the austere and uncivil bee, " When you cannot afford honey,
do not sting."
They asked Iman Mursheed Mohammed Ben Mohammed
Ghezaly, on whom be the mercy of God I by what means he had
attained to such a degree of knowledge ? He replied, "In this
manner, — whatever I did not know, I was not ashamed to
in([uire about." There will be reasonable hopes of recovery
when you get a skillful physician to feel your pulse. Inquire
about everything that you do not know ; since, for the small
trouble of asking, you will be guided in the respectable road of
knowledge.
Wlienever you are certain that anything will be known to
you in time, be not hasty in inquiring after it, as you will
thereby lessen your authority and respectability. When Lok-
man saw that in the hand of David iron became miraculously
like wax, he did not ask how he did it, being persuaded that
without asking it would be made known.
Tell your story in conformity to the temper of the hearer,
if you know that he is well disposed towards you. Any wise
man who associates with Mujnoon will talk of nothing else but
of the face of Leila.
216 APOLOGUES AND MORALS OF SA'DL
What can an old prostitute do but vow not to sin any more?
or a degraded superintendent of police, besides promising not
to injure mankind ? A youth who makes choice of retirement,
is a lionlike man in the path of God ; for an old man is not
able to move from his corner.
It is said in the Gospel, " O sons of Adam, if I should grant
you riches, you would be more intent on them than on me ; and
if I should make you poor, your hearts would be sorrowful ;
and then, how could you properly celebrate my praise, and
after what manner would you worship me? Sometimes in
affluence you are proud and negligent ; and again in poverty,
you are afflicted and wounded. Since such is your disposition,
both in happiness and in misery, I know not at what time you
will find leisure to worship God."
A Durwaish [mendicant priest] whose end is good is better
than a king whose end is evil. It is better to suffer sorrow
before, than after, the enjoyment of happiness.
The sky enriches the earth with showers, and the earth re-
turns it nothing but dust. A jar exudes whatever it contains.
If my disposition is not worthy in your sight, quit not your
own good manners. The Almighty beholdeth the crime, and
concealeth it ; and the neighbor seeth not, yet proclaimeth it
aloud. God preserve us I if men knew what is done in secret,
no one would be free from the interference of others.
Those who do not pity the weak, will suffer violence from
the powerful. It does not always happen that the strong arm
can overpower the hand of the weak. Distress not the heart
of the weak, lest you fall by one more powerful than yourself.
The gamester wants three sixes, but three aces turn up.
Pasture land is a thousand times better than the plain; but
the horse has not command of the reins.
A Durwaish, in his prayer, said, " O God, show pity towards
the wicked, for on the good thou hast already bestowed mercy,
by having created them virtuous."
When you perceive what is just, and that it must be given,
it is better to give it with kindness than with contention and
displeasure. If a man does not pay the tax willingly, the
officer's servant will exact it by force.
MEDICINE AND ITS SUBJECTS. 217
MEDICINE AND ITS SUBJECTS.
By AVICENNA.
[Ayicenna (a corruption of Ibn Sin&), the greatest philosopher of the East-
ern MohammecUui world, and one of the most universally accomplished men of
any country, was bom in the district of Bokhara 080 a.d. A precocious boy,
he mastered all branches of mediaeval science at the great Bagdad school, finally
learning medicine from a Christian ; his repute was so great that at seventeen
he was called to attend the emir of Bokhara, whom he cured, and was given
great rewards and free use of the royal library. The emir dying, and he becom-
ing highly unpopular, he left Bagdad, wandered about, and finally settled at
Jorj&n, opening a school of philosophy. Again winning dislike, he went to
Hamadan, and was made vizier to the emir, where he was so much disliked that
the emir barely saved him from death at the soldiers* hands ; retiring awhile,
was made court physician, and wrote his great encyclopaedia of philosophy, the
*■ ^ Shef d. * ' He lectured and studied part of each twenty-four hours, and caroused
another part. Imprisoned for treason by the emir^s successor, he escaped and
was attached to the prince of Ispahan ; but destroyed his constitution by
debauchery and drugs, and died in 1037. The infiuence of his philosophy
throughout the Middle Ages was enormous, as well on Jews and Christians as
Moslems ; he maintained the uncreated eternal existence of the world, and
determinism, with the immortality of the soul.]
I.
Medicine, I would explain, is the science by which the con-
ditions of the human body are known, as to the means by which
it is healed or the reverse, and health in possession is preserved,
or lost health restored. True, some will have it that medicine
is divided into theoretic and practical ; but you have made the
entire subject theoretic when you have explained what science
is. We will answer this, however, by saying that there is
some portion of the arts which is theoretic and practical ; and
of philosophy, that it is theoretic and practical ; and of medi-
cine it is alleged that it is theoretic and practical. In either
one of these branches we wish to convey one thing when we
call it theoretic, and another when we call it practical ; yet it
is not necessary for us to proclaim the diversity which exists
between them, except in medicine. So when we shall have
explained concerning medicine what part of it is theoretic,
and that all outside of that is practical, it is not to be supposed
we intend to say that one of the divisions of medicine is to
know and another to practice, — as many judge in examining
this subject, — but you ought to know that what we wish to con-
vey is otherwise, and that neither of the two divisions of medi-
cine is anything but science; only one of them means the
218 MEDICINE AND ITS SUBJECT&
elements of knowing a condition, the other those of operating
on it.
Lately, it is true, we have appropriated to the first of the
two the name of science or the theoretic, and to the second we
have appropriated the name of the practical. By the theoretic
of this we mean that when we shall have known it, we shall
acquire so much knowledge; as when it is said in medicine
that the classes of fevers are three, and that the combinations
are nine. And by the practical of this we mean not an opera-
tion in its effect, nor the task of causing corporeal motions, but
the division of medicine which, when we shall have known it,
will aid us in the research into knowledge or opinion : as it is
said in medicine, that to inflamed imposthumes are to be applied
at first things which drive them away and cool them off and
thicken them up, and afterwards we must mix the repellents
with relaxants, and after checking it, soothing relaxants will
be enough ; and further, that imposthumes are of matter which
the principal members expel. Therefore this teaching will aid
you in forming a judgment ; and this judgment is a proof of
the character of the operation. And when you have known
the character of the two divisions, you will have become an
expert in scientific knowledge and operative knowledge, even
if you have never operated.
Nor can any one explain that there are three conditions of
the human body, — sickness, health, and a condition which is
neither sickness nor health, — when two have sufficed for you ;
for it is possible that when one who teaches this has fully con-
sidered it, he may not find one of the two things. Further, if
this trinity were necessary, that which we have told you was a
departure from health would produce infirmity and the third
condition, the absence of which has been given as the definition
of health ; which is the habit or condition from which sound
operations of this subject proceed. . . . But we will not quar-
rel with physicians over this ; for I am not one who should dis-
pute with them in this matter : nor will this contention with
them, nor those who are opposed to them, be any assistance in
medicine, for in this matter the certainty of either doctrine
pertains to first principles.
II.
Since medicine considers the human body as to the means
whence it is cured and is drawn away from health ; and since
MEDICINE AND ITS SUBJECTS. 219
the knowledge of anything is not acquired or completed, since
it has had causes, unless it is known by its causes ; we ought
therefore in medicine to know the causes of health and sick-
ness. And because health and sickness and their causes are
often manifest, and often hidden and not to be comprehended
except by the significance of symptoms, we ought also in medi-
cine to know the symptoms which occur in health and sickness.
Now it was declared in the ascertained sciences that the knowl-
edge of anything is not acquired except through the knowledge
of its causes and beginnings, if it has had causes and begin-
nings ; nor completed except by means of knowing its acci-
dents and accompanying essentials. There are, then, four
sorts of causes : material, efScient, formal, and final.
Material causes, on which' health and sickness depend, are —
the affected member, which is the immediate subject, and the
humors ; and in these are the elements. And these two are
subjects according to their mixings together ; perhaps they
become altered. In the composition and alteration of the sub-
stance which is thus composed, a certain unity is attained.
Ellicient causes are the causes changing and preserving the
conditions of the human body : as airs and what are united
with them ; and viands, and waters, and drinks, and what are
united with them ; and evacuation and retention ; and districts
and cities, and habitable places, and what are united with
them ; and bodily and animate movings and restings, and sleep-
ings and wakings on account of them ; and changes in age, and
diversities in it, and in races and arts and manners, and in
things wliich befall the human body when they touch it, and
are either against nature or are not against nature.
Formal causes are physical constitutions, and virtues which
result from them, and combinations.
Final causes are operations. And in the science of opera-
tions without doubt lies the science of virtues, and the science
of virtues as we have set forth. These therefore are the sub-
jects of the doctrine of medicine ; whence one inquires concern-
ing the human body, how it is cured or diseased. One ought
to attain perfection in this research, — namely, how health may
be preserved and sickness removed. And the causes of this
kind are rules in eating and drinking, and the choice of air,
and the measure of movement and rest ; and doctoring with
medicines ; and doctoring with the hands. All this with physi-
cians is according to three species : of the well, of the sick, and
of the medium whom we have spoken of.
TIIE PHILOSOPHY OF AVEKROMS.
THE PHILOSOPHY OF AVERROES.
By ERNEST EENAM.
(Ttanslaied for thin work.)
[JosBPH Ebnebt Renan : Noted French historian and easayiat ; bom at
Tr^guler, Biittajif , Febraary 27, 1B23 ; died at Paris, October 2, 1802. He
waa educated for the prieatjiood, but being beset by doubts coaceming the
acceptod teoels of faith, be left the 86101118:7 t*^ ^^ Sulpioe and devotod hinuelf
to science and literature. Ho made a careful study of the Semitic langnagca
and of religious history. Among his principal norks are: "General Hlatorr
of tbe Semitic Languagea" (IBM). "Studies of Beligloua History" (ISST),
" Translation of the Book of Job" (1858), "The Origin of Language" (I86B),
"Essays, Moral and Critical" (1869), "The Ufe of Jeeus" (1883), "The
AposUes" (1808), "St. Paul" (1809), "AnUehrUt" (1873), "The Goiqiels"
(1877), "The Christian Church" (1879), "Harciw Aurellus" (1881), "New
Studies in Religious History" (1884), "Discourses and Co&fereDces" (1884),
and the dramw " Caliban " (1878), "Fountain of Youth" (1880), "The Priest
of N4mi" (leSG), and " The Abbess of Jouarre " (1888).]
[ATEBSots (a corruption of Ibn-Roshd), Arab pbilosopber, one of the two
or three greaUst intollects of modern Europe, was bom 1123 at Cordova, Spun,
of B line of Moslem judges ; bis father was a prominent jurist. A profound
student of all then known science, — mathematics, astronomy, natural history,
medicine, philosophy, theology, — be became a favorite of and private physician
to two successive Caliphs, a noted commentator on Aristotle, and a judge.
Accused by the orthodox party, late in life, of hostility to religion (his philos-
ophy was, though be openly professed respect for it), he was banished for a
couple of years, till the accession of the liberal party enabled the Caliph to
recall him. He died shortly after. In 1198. He wrote on all tbe subjects above
named, on law, ethics, and others; and his works hod enormous influence all
through the Middle Ages. The great Christian Schoolmen (Aquinas and others)
devotod their lives to refuting his doctrines, though compelled to use hla own
logioal method ; the Church had to put down by bloody persecutions the religious
movements those doctrines set going ; most of orthodox Europe, for centuries,
cursed him ae arch-infidel and Antichrist, a part adopted and spread his phi-
losophy, and even many of his greatest foes were his chief odmirecu and in part
Ub toiiowera. He was called " The Great Commentator " — i.e., on Aristotle, tbe
head of all philosophy.]
I. Theory of the Intellect.
The function of the intellect being to perceive the forma of
things, it must be itself absolutely devoid of form, and trans-
parent like a crystal which permits nothing to pass but the
image of objects. For if it had forms of its own, these forms
would mingle themselves with those of the objects perceived
and alter the truth of perception. The intellect, then, regarded
in the subject, is notliing but pure receptivity. But to stop there,
as Alexander of Aphrodisias has done, is not to exhaust the
THE PHILOSOPHY OF AVERROfiS. 221
analysis of the matter of the understanding. It does not suf-
fice to accord to the intellect a vague and indeterminate dispo-
sition to receive forms. In fact, we conceive the intellect empty
and without form ; then if it were nothing but a simple dispo-
sition to receive forms, we should conceive it as nothingness.
"Ah, Alexander 1" cries Ibn-Roshd [Averroes], "you pretend
that Aristotle wished to speak of nothing but a disposition, and
not of a subject disposed. In truth, I am ashamed of you for
such language and so singular a commentary. A disposition
is not in action any of the things which it is adapted to receive.
Then if Aristotle has not presented the intellect except as an
aptitude to receive forms, he has made it an aptitude without a
subject, which is absurd. And we see Theophrastus, Nicholas,
Themistius, and the other Peripatetics remain much more faith-
ful to Aristotle's text. That hypothesis was fabricated only by
Alexander ; all the philosophers of his time concur in rejecting
it, and Themistius repels it as an absurdity ; very different in
this from the doctors of our times, in whose eyes one cannot be
a perfect philosopher unless he is an Alexandrist." One must
accord the intellect, then, an objective existence, and the action
of the understanding has no place except by the concurrence of
the subjective (passive or potential) and the objective intellect
(active). The passive intellect is individual and perishable,
like all the faculties of the mind which attain nothing but the
variable ; the active intellect, on the contrary, being entirely
separated from man and exempt from all mingling with matter,
is unique, and the notion of number is not applicable to it
except by reason of the indi\4duals who share in it.
Without being expressed with the precision which we demand
to-day in philosophic researches, this solution satisfies the prin-
cipal conditions of the problem, and determines with sufficient
sharpness the parts of the absolute and the relative in the mat-
ter of the understanding. The refutations of Ibn-Roshd's
theory which the Middle Ages have attempted have been in
general defective, like all refutations which try to grasp a
system by its weak side rather than its true one. Certainly if
there is to the world a revolting absurdity, it is the unity of
minds, as people have professed to understand it ; and if Aver-
roes had not been able to uphold such a doctrine minutely,
Averroism would deserve to figure in the annals of insanity
and not in those of philosophy. The argument incessantly
repeated against the Averroist theory by Albert (Magnus)
222 THE PHILOSOPHY OF AVEBROltS.
and by St. Thomas — ^^Why, then the same mind is at the
same time wise and foolish, gay and sad" — that argument, I
say, which Averroes had foreseen and refuted, would then be
peremptory, and would sufiice to sweep that extravagance from
the field of the human spirit on the morrow of its appearance.
But in coDtemplating it close to, we see that such is not the
thought of Ibn-Roshd, and that this doctrine connects itself in
the spirit to a theory of the imiverse which fails neither in ele-
vation nor originality. •
The personality of consciousness has never been very clearly
revealed to the Arabs. The unity of the objective reason has
struck them much more forcibly than the multiplicity of the
subjective reason. Convinced, besides, that all parts of the
universe are similar and living, they have regarded human
thought in its entirety as a resultant out of superior forces and
as a general phenomenon of the universe. Without doubt, in
a philosophy which separates as vaguely as the Arab philosophy
the psychologic order and the ontological order, and which never
tells precisely whether the field of its speculations is within man
or outside him, such a manner of expression was not without
danger. We should note that Ibu-Koshd has said quite clearly
that he has not so expressed it. The unity of the intellect sig-
nifies nothing more than the universality of the principles of
pure reason, and the unity of the psychologic constitution in
the whole human race. We could not doubt, nevertheless, that
such was not his thought, when we hear him repeat incessantly
that the active intellect does not differ from the consciousness
which we have of the universe; that the immortality of the
intellect signifies the immortality of the human race ; and that
if Aristotle has said that intellect is not sometimes thinking
and sometimes not, that must be understood relatively to the
species, which never disappears, and which at some point of the
universe exercises without interruption its intellectual facul-
ties. " A living and permanent humanity," such, in the sense
of the Averroist theory, is the unity of the intellect. The
immortality of the active intellect is thus nothing else than
the eternal rebirth of humanity, and the perpetuity of civiliza-
tion. ('^Just as knowledge and being itself are something
individual to man himself, and the arts themselves in their
own special modes are seen to be within man himself, so the
inhabited universe is esteemed not to be outside of some aspect
of philosophy or natural arts. For although in some part these
arts may be absent, for instance in the northern quarter of the
THE PHILOSOPHY OF AVERROttS. 228
earth, it does not follow that the remaining quarters are deprived
of them.'') The reason is constituted as something absolute,
independent of individuals, as an integral part of the universe ;
and humanity, which is nothing but the action of that reason,
as a being necessary and eternal.
Thence, also, the necessity of philosophy, its providential
function, and its strange axiom : ^^ It is of necessity that there
should be some philosopher in the human race" (Averroes).
For all power should pass into action, otherwise it will be vain.
At every moment of time and every point of space an intelli-
gence must be contemplating the absolute reason. Now man
alone, through the speculative sciences, enjoys the prerogative.
Man and philosophy, then, are equally necessary in the plan of
the universe.
The defect of this system is in separating too deeply the
two elements of intellectual phenomena, and introducing a
cosmic agent in a problem which ought to be resolved by simple
psychology. To erect man like a statue in the face of the sun,
and wait for life to descend and animate it, is to await the
impossible. Every system which places the sources of reason
outside of man, condemns itself never to explain the fact of
understanding. Consciousness alone is in contact with itself,
psychology should not address itself to any external motor in
order to fill up the gaps in its hypotheses. Ibn-Roshd, on his
part, does not dissemble the diflSculties of his system. If the
intellect is a unity in all men, it is in all in the same degree,
the disciple has nothing to learn from the master. When a
man perceives anything intelligible, all perceive it at the same
time as he ; the psychologic fact loses all individuality. Just
so in the celestial bodies, each species is composed of but a
single individual, because such species having but one motor,
the majority must be as idle as if a pilot had many ships under
liis orders or a workman many tools ; just so if many minds
have but one motor, there is a superfetation in nature.
More than this, the fact of creating intelligible things, which
is proper to the active intellect, is not always in the same man
to the same degree ; it springs from, and grows with, the ac-
quired intellect, or the speculative intellect, and that is why
Theophrastus, Themistius, and still others have identified the
specuhitive and the active intellect. Ibn-Roshd rightly answers
that the active intellect, upon entering into communication with
a relative being, must subject itself to the conditions of that
relativity ; that the union of the intellect with the individual
224
THE FIUL080PHT OF AVERROliS.
mind has so place either by the multiplication of the intellect
or by the nmficalion of individuals, but by the action of the
intellect on sensible images, an action analogous to that of form
or matter; that this union is nothing else than the eternal
participation of humanity in a certain nuinlwr of eternal prin-
ciples like it. These principles, in communicating themselves
to incorruptible beings, do not participate in its corruptibility ;
they are independent of individuals, and as true in the desert
regions of the globe as in those where there are men to perceive
them. The uncreated types of Plato are chimeras, if taken
literally ; but they have nothing that is not true, if interpreted
in the sense of the objective reality of universab. Thus, the
intellect is at the same time single and multiple. If it were
absolutely single, it would follow that everyljody would per-
ceive only the same object. If it multiplied itaelf up to the
number of those who have understanding, the community of
intelligencea would be destroyed, knowledge would be incom-
municable. On the contrary, if we maintain at the same time
the unity of the object and the multiplicity of subjects, all
objections are resolved.
The passive intellect aspires to unite itself to the active
intellect, as power summons action, as matter summons form,
as flame darts toward the combustible body. Now this eflfort
does not stop at the first degree of possession wliich is called
the acquired intellect. The mind can arrive at a much more
intimate union with the universal intellect, at a sort of identi-
fication with the primordial reason. The acquired intellect has
served to conduct man to the sanctuary ; but it vanishes when
the end is attained, much as sensation prepares the imagination
and disappears when the action of the imagination becomes too
intense. Thus the active intellect exercises on the mind two
distinct actions, of which one has for its aim the elevation of
the material intellect to the perception of the intelligible, the
other to lead it farther on up to union with the intelligiblea
themselves. Man, arrived at that condition, comprehends
everything by the reason which he has made his own. Become ,
like God, he is iu some sort all beings, and understands them
as they are ; for lieiugs and their causes are nothing outside of
the knowledge he has of them. There is in every being a divine
tendency to receive as much of that noble purpose as accords
with his nature. The animal itself sliares in it, and bears in
itself the power of attaining the first rank. How admirable is
THE PHILOSOPHY OF AVERROfiS. 225
that condition, cries Ibn-Roshd, and how strange an existence !
Therefore, it is not at the origin, but at the limit of human
development, that we arrive, when all in man is in action and
nothing in potentiality.
II. On the Immortality op the Soul.
The extreme precision with which Peripateticism has sepa-
rated the two elements of the understanding, the relative ele-
ment and the absolute element, must lead it to divide the human
personality in the question of immortality. In spite of the
efforts of orthodox Aristotelianism, the opinion of the phi-
losopher on that point could not be doubtful. The universal
intellect is incorruptible and separable from the body ; the
individual intellect is perishable and ends with the body.
All the Arabs have taken in this sense the thought of Aris-
totle. The active intellect alone is immortal ; now, the active
intellect is nothing else than the common reason of himianity ;
humanity alone, then, is eternal. The Divine Providence, says
the commentator, has accorded to perishable being the force to
reproduce itself, to console it, and to give that sort of immor-
tality in default of the other. Sometimes, it is true, the opin-
ion of Ibn-Roshd can be taken in the sense that the inferior
faculties (sensibility, memory, love, hate) have no exercise
in the other life, while the superior faculties (the reason) alone
survive the dissolution of the body. That is very much the
interpretation which Albert and St. Thomas give to the opinion
of Aristotle. But the constant doctrine of the Arabian phi-
losophers, which Ibn-Koshd in general is far from softening
down, should serve to complete the thought on this point, which
he has never, it must be avowed, expressly treated. Now, the
denial of immortality and the resurrection, the doctrine that
man ought not to expect any other reward than what he finds
here below in his own perfection, constitutes the principal re-
proach which the zealots of orthodoxy, Gazali and the Motecal-
lemin, oppose to the Philosophers.
The soul is sometimes presented as absolutely independent
of the body. " The sight of the old man is feeble, not because
the visual faculty is enfeebled, but because the eye, which
serves as the instrument, is enfeebled. If the old man had a
young man's eyes, he would see Jis well as the young man.
Further, sleep furnishes an evident proof of the substratum of
VOL. IX. — 15
S26
THE PHILOSOPHY OF AVEREOtta
the mind ; for all the operations of the mind, and all the oi^ans
which serve aa the instruments of its oi>erationa, are as if anni-
hilated during that time, and yet the mind does not cease to
exist. Thus the wise man comes to partake the beliefs of the
vulgar on immortality, Tiie intellect, moreover, ia not attached
to any particular organ, while the senses are localized and can
be affected by contradictory sensations in different parts of the
body." Regarding only this isolated passage, one would be
tempted to attribute to Ibn-Koshd the orthodox sentiments
on immortality which the next page denies. He there upliolda
more sharply than ever that " the mind is not divided accord-
ing to the number of the individuals," that " it is one in Socra-
tea and in Plato," and that "individuation only comes from
sensibility."
It is not altogether witliout some reason that many Averro-
ists of the Renaissance, Nipbus for instance, invoke the theory
of the unity of the intellect against the absolute negations
of Pomponat. Averroes himself has sought by this turn of
thought to preserve a ghost of immortality. If the mind were
bounded and individualized in the individual, it would decay
with it as the magnet with the iron ; the distinction of indi-
viduals comes from matter, the form on the contrary is com-
mon to many. Now, that which makes permanence is the form
and not the matter. The form gives the name to the things ;
B hatchet without shai'pness is no longer a hatchet, but iron.
It is only by abuse of language that a dead body can be called
a man. Then, so far as pluralized, the individual disappears ;
but so far as it shares a common type — that is to say, so far
as it ia a species — it is immortal. The individual mind,
moreover, perceives nothing except through the imagination.
Just as sense perceives only in presence of the object, so the
mind perceives only before the image. It follows from this
that ^e individual thought is not eternal; for if it were,
images would be also. Incorruptible in itself, the intellect
becomes corruptible by the conditions of its exercise.
As to the popular myths on another life, Ibn-Roshd does not
conceal the aversion with which they inspire him. "Among
dangerous fiction." he says. " must be counted those which
tend to make men regard virtue only as a means of attaining
happiness. Virtue in that case has no existence, since men
abstain from pleasure only in the hope of being repaid with
nauiy. The hero will go in search of death only to escape a
THE PHILOSOPHY OF AVERROfiS. 227
gpi-eater evil. The just will respect property only in order to
acquire double." Elsewhere he vehemently blames Plato for
having sought to represent to the imagination, by the myth of
Er (Spring) the Armenian, the state of souls in another life.
" These fables," he says, " serve only to distort the minds of
the people, and especially of children, without being of any real
benefit toward ameliorating them. I know perfectly moral men
who reject all these fictions, and do not yield in virtue to those
who admit them."
AvBRRofts ON Man.
This intellect which is in action is what man may at last
apprehend in himself, and this is the intellect which is called
(juae9itvs (acquired), and is the complement and the action, and
what was the first matter with potency for him. And on
account of this, the moment the form was renewed, the potency
of separate forms was renewed in it, how far soever it descends
or ascends from complement to complement, and from form to
form more noble and nearer to action, so that at last it arrives at
this complement and this action with which no potency is any
longer mingled. And since man himself, to whom this comple-
ment is personal, is more noble than everything else found here,
because he is himself the connecting link and continuation
between things apprehended by sense but found defective (that
is, because in them potency is always mingled with action) and
between things found noble (in which potency is in no way
mingled with action), and of these latter are the pure abstract
intelligences; and it is agreed as true that all which is created
in this epoch is for man's sake, and everything is devoted to his
service, because he was the first complement which was created
in potency in the primal matter : it is therefore demonstrated
that he does unjustly who separates man from science, which is
the road to the possession of this complement, because it is not
doubtful that he who does this contradicts the device or inten-
tion of the Creator in devising this complement. And just as
he is fortunate who spends his time in service or study, and
approaches excellence in it, so he in this approximation. And
this is what I saw was to be put in such doubt ; and if anything
shall liave been revived, I will add it to this if God wills. And
praised be God, and may He bring us all to that which may be
His will, and lead us into that for which we were formed first
and afterward, and this is in life and in death.
ABfiLARD.
I. Eaely Cabkee: Relations with HiLoisB.
Bt GEORGE HENRY LEWBS.
(Prom " Biographical HiHtory of Philosophy.")
[Geobob OaNBr Lkwha : An English author, huHbaod of George Gliot ;
bom in London, April 18, 1817 ; died there November 28, 18TS. Uia career wm
varied : he attended Bchool in London, Jersey, Brittany, and Greenvrlch, studied
law and medicine, became an actor and a playwright, and Unally an author and
joumaliat. Among his writings are : " Biographical History of Philosophy "
(4 TOlB., 1846-1848), "The Spanish Drama" (1847), "Rose, Blanohe, and
Violet" (1848), " Life of Maxlmilien Robespierre V (1849), "The Noble Heart"
(1860), "Ufeand Works of Goethe" (1856), "Searide Studies" (1868), "Physi-
ology of Common Life" (2 vols., 18&()-1860), "Studies In Animal Life "(1862),
"Aristotle" (1864), "Problems of Lite and Mind" (6 vols., 1874-1879), and
" The Phyacal Basis of Mind " (187?).]
The name of Abelard has been Immortalized by association
with that of a noble woman. It is because Heloise loved him
that posterity feels interested in him, M. Michelet indeed
thinks tbat to Abelard she owes her fame — " without his mis-
fortunes she would have remained obscuret unheard of: " and
in one sense this is true; but true it also is that, without
her love, Abelard would have long ago ceased to inspire any
interest, for bis was essentially a shallow, selfish nature. His
popularity was rapid, loud, and scandalous. He was fitted for
it, lived for it. But many a greater name has faded from the
memories of men ; many a ouce noisy reputation fails to awaken
a single echo in posterity. Apart from the consecration o£ pas-
sion and misfortune, there is little in his life to excite our sym-
pathy. Viewed in counectioa with Heloise, he must always
interest us ; viewed away from her, ho presents the figure of a
quick, vivacious, unscrupulous, intensely vain Frenchman. But
in several respects be represents the philosophic struggle of the
twelfth century ; and in this light we may consider bim.
He was born in Brittany in 1079, of a noble family named
Berenger; the name of Abelard came to him later. His father
joined to his knightly accomplishments a taste for literature,
as literature was then understood ; and this taste became so
dominant in the mind of the youth, that he renounced tlie
career of arms altogether for that of learning. Dialectics was
the great science of that day, almost rivaling in importance the
theology which it served and disturbed by turns. It was an
ABSLARD. 229
exercise of intellectual ingenuity, for which this youth mani-
fested surprising aptitude. He traveled through various
provinces disputing with all comers, like a knight-errant of
philosophy, urged thereto by the goading desire of notoriety.
This love of notoriety was his curse through life. At the age
of twenty he came to Paris, hoping there to find a fitting oppor-
tunity of display — an arena for his powers as a disputant. He
attended the lectures of William de Champeaux, the most re-
nowned master of disputation, to whom students flocked from
all the cities of Europe. The new pupil soon excited atten-
tion. The beauty of his person, the easy grace of his manner,
his marvelous aptitude for learning, and still more marvelous
facility of expression, soon distinguished him from the rest.
The master grew proud of his pupil, loved him through his
pride, and doubtless looked on him as a successor. But it soon
became evident that the pupil, so quick at learning, did not sit
there merely to learn : he was waiting for some good oppor-
tunity of display, waiting to attack his venerable master, whose
secret strength and weakness he had discovered. The oppor-
tunity came ; he rose up, and in the midst of all the students
provoked William de Champeaux to discussion, harassed and
finally vanquished him. Rage and astonishment agitated the
students ; rage and terror the master. The students were in-
dignant, because they clearly saw Abelard's motive.
Abelard dates the origin of all his woes from this occasion,
when he created enmities which pursued him through life ; and
with a sophistication common to such natures, he attributes the
enmities to envy at his ability, instead of to the real causes, —
namely, his inordinate vanity and selfishness. For a time, in-
deed, the rupture with his master seemed successful. Although
only two and twenty years of age, he established a school of
philosophy at Melun, which became numerously attended, and
spread his name far and wide. Emboldened by success, he
removed his school still nearer to Paris — to Corbeil — in order,
as he frankly tells us, that he might be more importunate to his
old master. But his rival was still powerful, aged in science
and respect; intense application was necessary, and in the
struggle Abelard's overtasked energies gave way. He was
commanded by the physicians to shut up his school, and retire
into the country for repose and fresh air.
In two years he returned to Paris, and saw with delight
that his reputation had not been weakened by absence, bat that
280 ABflLARD.
on the contrary his scholars were more eager than ever. His
old antagonist, William de Champeaux, had renonnced the
world and retired to a cloister, where he opened the school of
Saint Victor, afterwards so celebrated. His great reputation,
although suffering from Abelard's attacks, drew crowds. One
day, when the audience was most numerous, he was startled by
the appearance of Abelard among the students, — come, as he
said, to learn rhetoric. William was troubled, but continued
his lecture. Abelard was silent until the question of *^uni-
versals" was brought forward, and then suddenly changing
from a disciple to an antagonist, he harassed the old man with
such rapidity and unexpectedness of assault, that William con-
fessed himself defeated, and retracted his opinion. That retrac-
tion was the death of his influence. His audience rapidly
dwindled. No one would listen to the minor points of dialec-
tics from one who confessed himself beaten on the cardinal
point of all. The disciples passed over to the victor. When
the combat is fierce between two lordly stags, the hinds stand
quietly by, watching the issue of the contest ; and if their
former lord and master, once followed and respected, is worsted,
they all without hesitation pass over to the conqueror, and
henceforth follow him. Abelard's school became acknowledged
as preeminent ; and as if to give his triumph greater emphasis,
the professor to whom William de Champeaux had resigned
his chair was either so intimidated by Ab6lard's audacity, or
so subjugated by his ability, that he offered his chair to Abelard
and ranged himself among the disciples.
Abelard was not content even with this victory. Although
undisputed master in dialectics, he could not hear of any other
teacher witliout envy. A certain Anselm taught theology at
Laon witli immense success, and this was enough to trouble
Abelard's repose; accordingly to Laon he went, ridiculed
Anselm's style, laughed at the puerile admiration of the schol-
ars, and offered to surpass the master in the explanation of
Scripture. The scholars first laughed, then listened, and
admired. Abelard departed, having excited anarchy in the
school and anguish in the heart of the old man.
His career at this period was brilliant. His reputation had
risen above that of every living man. His eloquence and sub-
tlety charmed hundreds of serious students, who thronged
beneath the shadows of the cathedral in ceaseless disputa-
tion, thinking more of success in dispute than of the truths
ABSLASD. 281
involvecL M. Guizot estimates these students at not less than
five thousand — of course not all at the same time. Amidst
these crowds, Ab^lard might be seen moving with imposing
haughtiness of carriage, not without the careless indolence
which success had given ; handsome, manly, gallant-looking,
the object of incessant admiration. His songs were sung in
the streets, his arguments were repeated in cloisters. The
multitude reverentially made way for him, as he passed ; and
from behind their window curtains peeped the curious eyes
of women. His name was carried to every city in Europe.
The Pope sent hearers to him. He reigned, and he reigned
alone.
It was at this period that the charms and helpless position
of Heloise attracted his vanity and selfishness. He resolved
to seduce her ; resolved it, as he confesses, after mature delib-
eration. He thought she would be an easy victim ; and he
who had lived in abhorrence of libertinage felt that he had now
attained such a position that he might indulge himseU with
impunity. We are not here attributing hypothetic sooun-
drelism to Abelard ; we are but repeating his own statements.
^^ I thought, too," he adds, *^ that I should the more easily gain
the girl's consent, knowing as I did to how great a degree she
both possessed learning and loved it." He tells us how he
** sought an opportunity of bringing her into familiar and daily
intercourse with me, and so drawing her the more easily to
consent to my wishes. With this view I made a proposal to
her uncle, through certain of his friends, that he should receive
me as an inmate of his house, which was very near to my school,
on whatever terms of remuneration he chose, alleging as my
reason that I found the care of a household an impediment to
study, and its expense too burdensome." The uncle, Fulbert,
was prompted by avarice, and the prospect of gaining instmo-
tion for his niece, to consent. He committed her entirely to
Abelard's charge, ^in order that whenever I should be at
leisure from the school, whether by day or by night, I might
take the trouble of instructing her ; and should I find her neg-
ligent, use forcible compulsion. Hereupon I wondered at the
man's excessive simplicity, with no less amazement than if I
had beheld him intrust a lamb to the care of a famishing wolf ;
for in thus placing the girl in my hands for me not only to
teach, but to use forcible coercion, what did he do but give
full liberty to my dedres, and offer the opportonify, even hid
232 ab£lard.
it not been sought — seeing that should enticement fail, I might
use threats and stripes in order to subdue her ? "
The crude brutality of this confession would induce us to
suppose it was a specimen of that strange illusion which often
makes reflective and analytic minds believe that their enthusi-
asms and passions were calculations, had we not sufficient
evidence throughout Abelard's life of his intense selfishness
and voracious vanity. Whatever the motive, the incident is
curious ; history has no other such example of passionate devo-
tion filling the mind of a woman for a dialectician. It was
dialectics he taught her — since he could teach her nothing else.
She was a much better scholar than he ; in many respects better
read. She was perfect mistress of Latin, and knew enough
Greek and Hebrew to form the basis of her future proficiency.
He knew nothing of Greek or Hebrew — he expressly declares
that he was forced to read Greek authors in Latin versions.
In the study of arid dialectics, then, must we imagine Abelard
and Heloise thrown together ; and in the daily communion of
their minds, passion ripened, steeped in that vague, dreamlike,
but intense delight produced by the contact of great intelli-
gences ; and thus, as the Spanish translator of her letter says,
"buscando siempre con pretexto del estudio los parages mas
retirados " [ever seeking on pretext of study the more retired
spots] they sought in the still air and countenance of
delightful studies a solitude more exquisite than any society.
"The books were open before us," says Abelard, "but we
talked more of love than philosophy, and kisses were more
frequent than sentences." . . .
At length, even Fulbert became aware of what was passing
under his roof. A separation took place ; but the lovers con-
tinued to meet in secret. Abelard arranged for Heloise an
escape to Brittany, where she resided with his sister, and gave
birth to a son. When Fulbert heard of her flight, he was
frantic with rage. Abelard came cringing to him, imploring
pardon, and offered the reparation of marriage provided it were
kept secret; because his marriage, if made known, would be
an obstacle to his rising in the church, and the miter already
glimmered before his ambitious eyes. Fulbert consented ;
but Heloise, with womanly self-abnegation, would not consent.
She would not rob the world of its greatest luminary. "I
should hate this marriage," she exclaimed, " because it would
be an opprobrium and a calamity." She recalled to Abelard
ABfiLARD. 283
various passages in Scripture and ancient writers, in which
wives are accursed, pointing out to him how impossible it would
be for him to consecrate himself to philosophy unless he were
free; how could he study amid the noises of children and
domestic troubles of a household ? how much more honorable
it would be for her to sacrifice herself to him ! She would be
his concubine. The more she humiliated herself for him, the
greater would be her claims upon his love ; and thus she would
be no obstacle to his advancement, no impediment to the free
development of his genius.
Gladly would Abelard have profited by this sublime passion ;
but he was a coward, and his heart trembled before Fulbert.
He therefore endeavored to answer her arguments; and she,
finding that his resolution was fixed — a resolution which he
very characteristically calls a bit of stupidity, meam stultitiam^
burst into tears and consented to the marriage, which was per-
formed with all secrecy. Fulbert and his servants, however,
in violation of their oath, divulged the secret, whereupon
Heloise boldly denied that she was married. The scandal be-
came great ; but she persisted in her denials, and Fulbert drove
her from the house with reproaches. Abelard removed her to
the nunnery of Argenteuil, where she assumed the monastic
dress, though without taking the veil. Abelard furtively
visited her. Meanwhile Fulbert's suspicions were roused lest
this seclusion in the nunnery should be but the first step to her
taking the veil, and so ridding Abelard of all impediment.
Those were violent and brutal times, but the vengeance of
Fulbert startled even the Paris of those days with horror.
With his friends and accomplices, he surprised Abelard sleep-
ing, and there inflicted that atrocious mutilation which Origen
in a moment of religious frenzy inflicted on himself. [The
object was a double revenge, as according to canon law the
mutilation disbarred Abelard from church positions ; so the dis-
avowal of marriage gained him nothing. Fulbert and his
ruffians were punished.]
In shame and anguish Abelard sought the refuge of a
cloister. He became a monk. But the intense selfishness of
the man would not permit him to renounce the world without
also forcing Heloise to renounce it. Obedient to his commands,
she took the veil, thus once again sacrificing herself to him
whom she had accepted as a husband with unselfish regret, and
whom she abandoned in trembling, to devote herself hence-
234 AB£LARD.
forth, without hope, without faith, without love, to her divine
husband.
The gates of the convent closed forever on that noble
woman, whose story continues one of pure heroism to the last.
With her disappearance the great interest in Abelard dis-
appears. On the 2l8t of April, 1142, he expired, aged sixty-
three. " He lived in wretchedness and died in humiliation ; '*
[says a French biographer] "but he had glory, and he was
loved."
II. Later Career: Struggle with St. Bernard.
By henry hart MnJtfAN.
(From the ** History of Latin Christianity.")
[Henbt Hart Milman : A leading English church historian ; bom in Lon*
don, February 10, 1701 ; died September 24, 1868. He was a clergyman, became
canon of Westminster, and was dean of St. PauPs, 1840-1808. He had some poetic
gift, was professor of poetry in Oxford, 182l-18;U, and wrote epics and a drama
(** Fazio "), now forgotten. But his historical work was important and endur-
ing. He was a liberal, the first to write sacred history with the critical canons
of other history, and a storm of detraction followed him till a younger school
far outran him in the same direction. His ** History of the Jews" was published
in 1830, ^* History of Christianity under the Empire** in 1840, and his greatest
work, ** History of Latin Christianity " (to 1456), in 1855. His edition of Gib-
bon*s *^ Decline and Fall** has never been superseded, though later editions have
added to his notes.]
[ Abdlard's later career is by no means without interest ; his great contest
with St. Bernard is notable in church history. Dean Milman thus tells
it:—]
The fame of Abelard, and his pride and ungovernable soul,
still pursued him ; his talents retained their vigor ; his temper
was unsubdued. The monastery of St. Denys was dissolute.
Abelard became a severe reformer ; he rebuked the abbot and
the whole community for their lax discipline, their unexemplary
morals. He retired to a private cell, and near it opened a school.
So great was the concourse of scholars, that lodging and pro-
vision could not be found for the countless throng. On the one
side was an object of the most excessive admiration, on the
other of the most implacable hatred. His enemies urged the
bishop of the province to interdict his lectures, as tainted with
secular learning unbecoming a monk. His disciples, with more
dangerous adulation, demanded of the great teacher the satis-
faction of their reason on the highest points of theology, which
they could no longer receive in simple faith. They would no
ABilLARD. 285
longer be blind leaders of the blind, nor pretend to believe what
they did not clearly comprehend. Abelard composed a theo-
logical treatise, in which he discussed the awful mystery of the
Trinity in Unity.
His enemies were on the watch. Two of his old discomfited
antagonists at Laon, named Alberic and Litolf, denounced him
before Rodolph, archbishop of Rheims, and Conon, bishop of
Praeneste, the legate of the Pope (1121). He was summoned
to appear before a council at Soissons. A rumor was spread
abroad that he asserted that there were three Gods. He hardly
escaped being stoned by the populace, but no one ventured to
cope with the irresistible logician. Abelard offered his book :
not a voice was raised to arraign it. The prudent and friendly
Godfrey, bishop of Chartres, demanded a fair hearing for Abe-
lard ; he was answered by a general cry that the whole world
could not disentangle his sophisms. The council was drawing
to a close. The enemies of Abelard persuaded the archbishop
and the legate, who were unlettered men and weary of the
whole debate, to command the book to be burned, and the au-
thor to be punished by seclusion in a monastery for his intoler-
able presumption in writing and lecturing on such subjects
without the authority of the Pope and of the church. This
was a simple and summary proceeding. Abelard was com-
pelled to throw his book into the fire with his own hands, and,
weeping at the loss of his labors, to recite aloud the Athanasian
creed. He was then sent, as to a prison, to the convent of St.
Medard, but before long was permitted to return to his cell at
St. Denys.
His imprudent passion for truth plunged him in a new
calamity. He ventured to question, from a passage in Bede,
whether the patron saint of the abbey was indeed the Diony-
sius of St. Paul, the famous Areopagite. The monks had
hardly endured his remonstrances against their dissolute lives ;
when he questioned the authenticity of their saint, their fury
knew no bounds. They declared that Bede was an incorrigible
liar, Abelard a sacrilegious heretic : their founder had traveled
in Greece, and brought home irrefragable proofs that their St.
Denys was the convert of St. Paul. It was not the honor of
the monastery alone which was now at stake, but that of the
whole realm. Abelard was denounced as guilty of treasonable
impiety against France by thus deposing her great tutelar saint.
The vengeance of the king was invoked against him. Abelard
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AB£LABD. 287
dialectic disputations rather than gloomy ascetic practices the
occupation, — awoke the vigilant jealousy of the two great
reformers of the age, Norbert, the archbishop of Magdeburg,
whose great achievement had been the subjection of the regular
canons to a severer rule, and Bernard, whose abbey of Clairvaux
was the model of the most rigorous, most profoundly religious,
monastic life. The founder of the Paraclete was at least a
formidable rival, if not a dangerous antagonist. Abelard after-
wards scornfully designated these two adversaries as the new
apostles ; but they were the apostles of the ancient established
faith, himself that of the new school — the heresy, not less fear-
ful because undefinable, of free inquiry. There was as yet no
declaration of war, no direct accusation, no summons to answer
specific charges before council or legate ; but that worse hostil-
ity of secret murmurs, of vague suspicions spread throughout
Christendom, of solemn warnings, of suggested fears. Abilard,
in all his pride, felt that he stood alone, an object of universal
suspicion ; he could not defend himself against this unseen,
unaggressive warfare ; he was as a man reported to be smitten
with the plague, from whom the sound and healthy shrunk with
an instinctive dread, and who had no power of forcing an
examination of his case. His overweening haughtiness broke
down into overweening dejection. He was so miserable that in
his despair he thought seriously of taking refuge beyond the
borders of Christendom, of seeking elsewhere that quiet which
was refused him by Christian hostility, to live as a Christian
among the declared foes of Christianity.
Whether from personal respect, or the national pride of the
Bretons in their distinguished countryman, he was offered the
dignity of abbot in a monastery on the coast of Brittany in
Morbihan, that of St. Gildas de Rhuys. It was a bleak and
desolate region, the monks as rude and savage as the people ;
even the language was unknown to Abelard. There, on the
very verge of the world, on the shores of the ocean, Abelard
sought in vain for quiet. The monks were as lawless in life
as in manners ; there was no common fund, yet Abelard was
expected to maintain the buildings and religious services of
the community. Each monk spent .his private property on his
wife or his concubine. Abelard, always in extremes, endeav-
ored to submit this rugged brotherhood to the discipline of a
Norbert or a Bernard ; but rigor in an abbot who knows not
how to rouse religious enthusiasm is resented as tyranny.
236 AB£lard.
fled ; both he and the prior of a monastery near Troyes, who
was so rash as to be one of his believers, were threatened with
excommunication. The blow so shocked the abbot of St. Denys
(he was said indeed to have broken his constitution by intem-
perance) that he died, and thus relieved Abelard from one of
his most obstinate and bitter enemies. The court was appeased,
and through the royal interest Abelard was permitted to with-
draw to a more peaceful solitude.
After some delay Abelard availed himself of the royal per-
mission ; he found a wild retreat, near the small river Ardris-
san, not far from Troyes. There, like the hermits of old, he
built his solitary cabin of osiers and of thatch. But the sanc-
tity of Antony or of Benedict, or of the recent founder of the
Cistercian order, was not more attractive than the cell of the
philosopher. Abelard, thus degraded in the eyes of men and
in his own estimation by his immorality and by its punishment,
branded with the suspicion of heresy by a council of the church,
with a reputation for arrogance and an intractable temper, which
brought discord wherever he went, an outcast of society rather
than a world-wearied anchorite, had nevertheless lost none of
his influence. The desert was peopled around him by his ad-
miring scholars ; they left the castle and the city to dwell in
the wilderness ; for their lofty palaces they built lowly hovels ;
for their delicate viands they fed on bread and wild herbs ; in-
stead of soft beds they reposed contentedly on straw and chaff.
Abelard proudly adapted to himself the words of Scripture,
" Behold, the whole world is gone after him ; by our persecu-
tion we have prevailed nothing, we have but increased his
glory." A monastery arose, which had hardly space in its cells
for the crowding votaries ; Abelard called it by the name of the
Paraclete — a name which, for its novelty and seeming presump-
tion, gave new offense to his multiplying enemies.
But it was not the personal hatred alone which Abelard
had excited by his haughty tone and vituperative language, or
even by his daring criticism of old legends. His whole system
of teaching, the foundation and discipline and studies in the
Paraclete, could not but be looked upon with alarm and sus-
picion. This new philosophic community, a community at least
bound together by no religious vow and governed by no rigid
monastic rules, — in wliich the profoundest and most awful
mysteries of religion were freely discussed, in which the exer-
cises were those of the school rather than of the cloister, and
AB£lard. 237
dialectic disputations rather than gloomy ascetic practices the
occupation, — awoke the vigilant jealousy of the two great
reformers of the age, Norbert, the archbishop of Magdeburg,
whose great achievement had been the subjection of the regular
canons to a severer rule, and Bernard, whose abbey of Clairvaux
was the model of the most rigorous, most profoundly religious,
monastic life. The founder of the Paraclete was at least a
formidable rival, if not a dangerous antagonist. Abelard after-
wards scornfully designated these two adversaries as the new
apostles ; but they were the apostles of the ancient established
faith, himself that of the new school — the heresy, not less fear-
ful because undefinable, of free inquiry. There was as yet no
declaration of war, no direct accusation, no summons to answer
specific charges before council or legate ; but that worse hostil-
ity of secret murmurs, of vague suspicions spread throughout
Christendom, of solemn warnings, of suggested fears. Abilard,
in all his pride, felt that he stood alone, an object of universal
suspicion ; he could not defend himself against this unseen,
unaggressive warfare ; he was as a man reported to be smitten
with the plague, from whom the sound and healthy shrunk with
an instinctive dread, and who had no power of forcing an
examination of his case. His overweening haughtiness broke
down into overweening dejection. He was so miserable that in
his despair he thought seriously of taking refuge beyond the
borders of Christendom, of seeking elsewhere that quiet which
was refused him by Christian hostility, to live as a Christian
among the declared foes of Christianity.
Whether from personal respect, or the national pride of the
Bretons in their distinguished countryman, he was offered the
dignity of abbot in a monastery on the coast of Brittany in
Morbihan, that of St. Gildas de Rhuys. It was a bleak and
desolate region, the monks as rude and savage as the people ;
even the language was unknown to Abelard. There, on the
very verge of the world, on the shores of the ocean, Abelard
sought in vain for quiet. The monks were as lawless in life
as in manners ; there was no common fund, yet Abelard was
exj>ected to maintain the buildingps and religious services of
the community. Each monk spent .his private property on his
wife or his concubine. Abelard, always in extremes, endeav-
ored to submit this rugged brotherhood to the discipline of a
Norbert or a Bernard ; but rigor in an abbot who knows not
how to rouse religious enthusiasm is resented as tyranny.
288 ABSLARD.
Among the wild monks of St. Gildas the life of Abelard was
in constant peril. From their obtuse and ignorant minds his
wonderful gifts and acquirements commanded no awe ; thej
were utterly ignorant of his learned language ; they hated his
strictness and even his piety. Violence threatened him without
the walls, treachery within. They tried to poison him ; they
even drugged the cup of the Holy Eucharist. A monk who
had tasted food intended for him died in agony. The abbot
extorted oaths of obedience, he excommunicated, he tried to
the utmost the authority of his office. He was obliged at length
to take refuge in a cell remote from the monastery with a very
few of the better monks ; there he was watched by robbers
hired to kill him.
The deserted Paraclete in the meantime had been reoccupied
by far different guests. Heloisa had lived in blameless dignity
as the prioress of Argenteuil. The rapacious monks of St.
Denys, to whom Argenteuil belonged, expelled the nuns and
resumed the property of the convent. The Paraclete, aban-
doned by Abelard's scholars, and falling into decay, offered to
Heloisa an honorable retreat with her sisters : she took posses-
sion of the vacant cells. A correspondence began with the
abbot of St. Gildas. Abelard's history of his calamities — that
most naked and unscrupulous autobiography — reawakened the
soft but melancholy reminiscences of the abbess of the Paraclete.
Those famous letters were written, in which Heloisa dwells
with such touching and passionate truth on her yet unextin-
guished affection. Age, sorrow, his great calamity, his perse-
cutions, his exclusive intellectual studies, i>erhaps some real
religious remorse, have frozen the springs of Abelard's love, if
his passion may be dignified with that holy name. In him all
is cold, selfisli, almost coarse : in Heloisa the tenderness of the
woman is chastened by the piety of the saint ; much is still
warm, almost passionate, but with a deep sadness in which
womanly, amorous regret is strangely mingled with the strong-
est language of religion.
The monastery of St. Gildas seemed at length to have been
reduced to order ; but when peace surrounded Abelard, Abe-
lard could not be at peace. He is again before the world, again
in the world ; again committed, and now in fatal strife with
his great and unforgiving adversary. His writings had now
obtained popularity, as widespread and perilous as his lectures
and his disputations. A}>elard, it might seem, in desperation,
ABflLARD. 289
provoked the contest with that adversary in his stronghold.
He challenged Bernard before kings and prelates whom Bernard
ruled with irresistible sway ; he entered the lists against author-
ity where authority was supreme — in a great council. At
issue with the deep devotional spirit of the age, he chose his
time when all minds were excited by the most solemn action
of devotion — the Crusade : he appealed to reason when reason
was least likely to be heard.
A council had been summoned at Sens (1140) for a reli-
gious ceremony which more than all others roused the passions
of local and national devotion — the translation of the body of
the patron saint. The king, Louis VII., the counts of Nevers
and Champagne, a train of nobles, and all the prelates of the
realm were to be present. Before this audience Abelard dared
his adversary to make good his charges of heresy, by which it
was notorious that Bernard and his monks had branded his
writings. Yet so great was the estimation of Abelard's powers
that Bernard at first shrunk from the contest. ^^ How should
an unpracticed stripling like himself, unversed in logic, meet
the giant who was practiced in every kind of debate?" He
consented at length to appear, not as the accuser, only as a
witness against Abelard. But already he had endeavored to
influence the court : he had written to the bishops of France
about to assemble at Sens rebuking their remissness, by which
this wood of heresies, this harvest of errors, had been allowed to
grow up around the spouse of Christ.
The words of Abelard cannot be cited to show his estimation
of Bernard. Outwardly he had even shown respect to Bernard.
On a visit of friendly courtesy to the neighboring abbess of the
Paraclete, a slight variation in the service had offended Bernard's
rigid sense of ecclesiastical unity: Abelard, wth temper but
with firmness, defended the change. But the quiet and bitter
irony of his disciple [Berengar], who described the contest,
may be accepted as an unquestionable testimony to the way of
speaking in his esoteric circle and among his intimate pupils, of
the even now almost canonized saint.
[Berengar sneers at Bernard's repute for working miracles, as though the
world and heaven moved only at his command.]
With these antagonistic feelings, and this disparaging esti-
mate each of the other, met the two great champions. In Ber*
nard the Past and the Present concentered all their powers and
240
AB^LABD.
inSuences, the whole strength uf the sacerdotal, ceremonial,
inflexibly dogmatic, imaginative religion of centuries — the pro-
found and submissive faith, the monastic austerity, the cower-
ing superstition ; he was the spiritual dictator of the age, above
kings, prelates, even above the pope ; he was the model of holi-
ness, the worker of perpetual wonders. Abelard cannot be ac-
cepted as a prophetic type of the future. Free inquiry could
only emancipate itself at a much later period by allying itself
with a strong counter- religious passion; it must oppose the
strength of individual Christianity to the despotism of ecclesi-
astical religion. Abelard's religion (it were most imjust to
question his religion) was but a colder form of the dominant
faith ; he was a monk, though against his own temperament
and tone of feeling. But Abelard was pure intellect, utterly
unimaginative, logical to the most naked precision, analytical
to the minutest aubtilty ; even his devotion had no warmth ;
he mled the mind, but touched no heart. At best, therefore, he
was the object of wonder ; Bernard the object of admiration,
reverence, love, almost of adoration.
The second day of the council (the first had been devoted
to the solemn translation of the relics) was appointed for this
grand theological tournament. Not only the king, the nobles,
the prelates of France, but all Christendom watched in anxious
solicitude the issue of the conflict. Yet even before a tribunal
80 favorable, so preoccupied by his own burning words, Bernard
was awed into calmness and moderation. He demanded only
that the most obnoxious passages should be read from Abelard's
works. It was to his amazement, no less than that of the whole
council, when Abelard, instead of putting forth his whole
strength in a reply, answered only, " I appeal to Rome," and
left the hall of council. It is said, to explain this unexpected
abandonment of the field by the bold challenger, that he was in
danger of his life. At Sens, as before at Soissons, the populace
were so exasperated at the daring heretic, who was reported to
have impeached the doctrine of the Trinity, that they were
ready to rise against him. Bernard himself would hardly have
interfered to save him from that summary refutation ; and
Abelard, in the confidence of his own power and fame as a dis-
putant, might perhaps expect Bernard to decline his challenge.
He may have almost forgotten the fatal issue of the council of
Soissons ; at a distance, in his retreat in Brittany, such a tribu-
mil might appear less awful than when be saw it in undisguised
ab£labd. 241
and unappeased hostility before him. The council may have
been disappointed at this sudden close of the spectacle which
they were assembled to behold ; but they were relieved from
the necessity of judging between the conflicting parties.
The report of the council to Rome is in such terms as these:
" Peter Abelard makes void the whole Christian faith by attempt-
ing to comprehend the nature of God through human reason;
. . . the searcher of the Divine Majesty, the fabricator of heresy.
Already has his book on the Trinity been burned by order of
one council ; it has now risen from the dead. His branches
spread over the whole earth ; he boasts that he has disciples in
Rome itself, even in the college of Cardinals; he draws the
whole world after him ; it is time therefore to silence him by
apostolic authority."
[Pope Innocent II. sentenced Abdlard to silence, excommunicated his
disciples, and reproved public disputation on the mysteries of the
Trinity. The sentence was delivered before Abelard could reach
Rome. But it could not have been different. Abelard, like many
moderns, kept a religion and a philosophy which absolutely nullified
each other, in water-tight compartments.]
Abelard had set out on his journey to Rome ; he was
stopped by severe illness, and found hospitable reception in
the Abbey of Clugny. Peter the Venerable, the abbot of that
famous monastery, did more than protect the outcast to the
close of his life. He had himself gone through the ordeal of a
controversy with the fervent Bernard, though their contro-
versy had been conducted in a milder and more Christian spirit.
Yet the abbot of the more luxurious or more polished Clugny
might not be sorry to show a gentleness and compassion uncon-
genial to the more austere Clairvaux. He even \vrought an
outward reconciliation between the persecuted Abelard and the
victorious Bernard. It was but an outward, a hollow reconcili-
ation. Abelard published an apology, if apology it might be
called, which accused his adversary of ignorance or of malice.
The apology not merely repelled the charge of Arianism, Nes*
torianism, but even the slightest suspicion of such doctrines ,
and to allay the tender anxiety of Heloisa, who still took a
deep interest in his fame and happiness, he sent her his creed,
which might have satisfied the most austere orthodoxy.
Even in the highest quarters, among the most distinguished
prelates, there was at least strong compassion for Abelard,
admiration for his abilities, perhaps secret indignation at the
VOL. IX. — 16
242
ABE LARD.
hard usage be had endured. Bernard knew tliat no less a
person than Giiido di CaHtello, afterwards Pope CtBlestine 11.,
a disciple of Abelard, spoke of him at least with alTection. To
him Bernard writes, " He would not suppose that though Guido
loved the man, he could love hia errors." He suggests the
peril of the contagion of such doctrines, and skillfully associates
the name of Abelard with the moat odious heresies. When he
writes of the Trinity he has the savor of Arius ; when of grace,
of Pelagius ; when of the person of Christ, of Nestorius. To
the Cardinal Ivo he uses still stronger words — " Though a
Baptist without in his austerities, he is a Herod within."
Still, for the last two years of his life, Abelard found peace,
honor, seclusion, in the Abbey of Clugny. He died at the age
of sixty-three : Peter the Venerable communicated the tidings
of hia death to the still faithful Heloisa. Hb language may be
contrasted with that of St. Bernard. "I never saw hia equal
for humility of manners and habits. St. Germanus was not
more modest ; nor St. Martin more poor. He allowed no
moment to escape unoccupied by prayer, reading, writing, or
dictation. The heavenly visitor surprised him in the midst of
these holy works." The remains of Abelard were transported
to the Paraclete ; an absolution obtained by Peter was de-
posited in his tomb ; for twenty-one years the abbess of the
Paraclete mourned over her teacher, her lover, her husband ;
and then reposed by his side.
III. Fbom the First Two Lettees between HdLOiSE
AKD Abblard.
H4lcnae to AbSlard.
Yomt "Letter to a Friend" for consolation, belovedest,
some one lately brought by chance to me. Instantly judging
it from the superscription to be yours, I seized it to read aa
eagerly as I cherish the writer dearly ; that him whose reality
I have lost, I might recover in a sort of image by words at
least. Those of that letter, I do not forget, were nearly all full
of gall and wormwood ; that is, they told the miserable story
of our intercourse, and above all of your incessant afflictions,
You fulfilled with truth in that Letter what you promised
the friend at the beginning of it; namely, that in comparison
with yours he should rate his own woes nothing or triSes.
Notably where you turned the pen to setting forth the persecu-
ABfiLARD. 243
tions of your former teachers against you, then the outrage of
supreme treachery on your body, as also the accursed envy and
fierce hostility of your fellow-pupils, Alberich of Rheims and
Lotulf of Lombardy; by whose promptings, what was done to
that glorious work your Theology, and what to yourself as if
condemned to prison, you did not pass over. Then you went
on to the intriguing of your abbey and its false brethren, and
the slanders, so perilous to you, of those two pseudo- Apostles
[Norbert and Bernard] moved by acknowledged rivalry, also
the scandal roused in so many by the name Paraclete given
against usage to the Oratory; finally, with those unbearable
and still continuing persecutions of your life, namely, by that
merciless rack-renter, and the villains you call sons, monks for
gain, you crown the deplorable history.
That nobody could either read or hear these things with
dry eyes, you must believe; they renew my sorrows by as much
as they so carefully describe the items, and increase them the
more that you tell how perils still thicken against you; so that
all of us alike are forced to despair of your life, and every day
our trembling hearts and palpitating bosoms give birth to the
wildest rumors of your murder.
By Him therefore, Christ, who has thus far protected you
in all ways, we pray you deign in your shipwreck to reassure
us, as his handmaids and yours, with frequent letters on these
things about which you still feel anxious, that at least you
may have us, who alone remain to you, as sharers in grief or
joy. For those who grieve with the grieving usually afford
some consolation, and whatever burden is loaded on many is
borne more lightly or left behind ; while if this storm quiets
down the least bit, by so much as the letters are hastened will
they be the more joyful. But whatever you write us of, you
will confer not a little relief ; this alone is enough, that you
will show you remember us.
How joyful indeed are the letters of absent friends, Seneca
himself teaches us by his own example, writing thus from some-
where to his friend Lucilius: "That you write often to me, I
give thanks. For by that means alone can you show yourself
to me. Never do I receive a letter of yours but instantly we
are one." If the images of absent friends are joyful to us
when they revive memory, and soothe the craving of absence
with delusive and empty solace, how much more joyful are
letters which bring true tokens of jan absent friend I But
244 ABfiLARD.
thank God, as to these at least, no envy shall anywise forbid
restoring your presence to us, no obstacle shall hinder it, no
neglect (I pray) shall retard it.
You have written your friend the consolation of a lengfthy
letter — for his mishaps, it is true, but about your own ; in the
zealous recounting of which, while you strive for his consola-
tion you have added greatly to our desolation, and while you
wish to doctor his wounds you have inflicted some new wounds
of sorrow on us, and aggravated the old ones. Heal, I pray,
those you have made yourself; you who are occupied in curing
those made by others. You have indeed acted the part of a
friend and companion, and paid the debt of friendship as well
as companionship; but you have tied yourself by a heavier
obligation to us, whom it is agreed to call not so much friends
as dearest friends, not so much companions as daughters, or
whatever sweeter and holier can be thought of.
But by how great an obligation you have bound yourself
to these women does not lack for arguments or witnesses, that
a doubt if any may be settled ; and if all were silent, the fact
itself would cry out. Why, after God you are the sole founder
of this place, the sole architect of the Oratory, the sole builder
of the congregation. You have built nothing here upon an-
other's groundwork. Eveiything that is here is your creation.
This solitude, vacant save for wild beasts and robbers, knew no
residence of men, possessed no house. In these lairs of wild
animals, in these hiding places of brigands, where God was
never wont to be named, you have erect43d a divine tabernacle,
and dedicated a fitting temple to the Holy Spirit. You have
brought nothing to the building of this from the wealth of
kings or princes — though you influence many and the great-
est — that whatever was done might be credited to you alone.
Clerics or scholars, emulously streaming hither to your teach-
ings, furnished everything needful ; and those who lived by
church benefices did not know how to make offerings but only
to receive, and those with hands out for taking had none for
giving; in the making of offerings here, spendthrifts and beg-
gars were made.
Yours therefore, truly your own is this novel plantation for
a sacred use; great, yet still thick with tender plants, for whom
watering is needed that they may flourish. This plantation is
feeble enough from the very nature of the female sex; it is
weak even though it is not new. Hence it needs the more
ABfiLARD. 245
thorough and frequent culture, like that of the Apostle: "I
have planted, Apollos has watered, but God gives the increase."
The Apostle had planted and founded, with faith in prophecy,
liis doctrine among the Corinthians to whom he wrote. The
disciple Apollos had watered them after the manner of the
Apostle himself, with holy exhortations, and thus increase of
righteousness was bountifully given them by divine grace. A
vineyard of others' vines which you did not plant, turned to
you in bitterness, you cultivate often by fruitless admonitions
and vainl}' by holy discourses. Attend to what you owe your
own, you who thus spend care on outsiders. You teach and ad-
monish the unruly, and make no progress. Vainly before the
swine do you strew the pearls of godly eloquence. You who
spend so much on the obstinate, consider what you owe the
obedient. You who lavish so much on your enemies, reflect on
what you owe your daughters. And leaving out everything
else, think by how great an obligation you have bound yourself
to me ; that what you owe to devoted women in common, you
may pay to tlie one still more devoted to you alone.
How many and what treatises on doctrine, or of exhortation,
or even of consolation, the Holy Fathers have composed for
holy women, and how zealously, your grandeur knows better
than my littleness. Hence your forgetfulness just now arouses
no slight wonder in the feeble beginnings of our conversion [to
a religious life] that neither from reverence to God nor love to
us, nor admonished by the examples of the Holy Fathers, have
you tried to console me, wavering and every day overcome by
sorrow, either by conversation in presence or a letter in absence;
me, to whom you know yourself bound by so much greater obli-
gation, as it is confessed that you are joined to me by the con-
tract of a nuptial sacrament; and the more beholden to me in
that, since it is notorious that I have encircled you with a
inciusureless love.
You know, dearest, everybody knows, how much I have
given up for you; and that by a pitiful chance, that supreme
and imiversally notorious treachery has robbed me of myself
tus well as you, and that my sorrow is incomparably greater for
the manner of the losing than for the loss. But the greater
the cause of grief, the greater the remedy to be administered
for clieer. Anyway, it must come not from another but from
yourself; for you who alone are the cause of grieving, must be
alone in the grace of consoling. Why, you are the only one
246 ABfiLARD.
who can sadden me, who can gladden me, or have power to
comfort me. And you alone are the one who chiefly owes it
to me; and now most of all, when I have fulfilled all yoor
orders so utterly that I cannot take offense at you in anything,
and at your command I could bear to destroy myself. And
what is more, and wonderful to be told, my love has turned
to such insanity that what alone it desires, that it deprives
itself of without hope of recovery; for at your behest I in-
stantly transformed not only my garb but my spirit, that I
might show you that you were the o^vner both of my body and
my soul.
Nothing whatever, God knows, have I asked of you but
yourself; you pure and simple, not desiring anything you had.
I expected no contract of marriage, no dower, not even to
study my own pleasures or will, but yours, as you know. And
if the name "wife" seems holier and more secure, the terib
"friend" [awica] always appeared sweeter to me; or if you
would not think scorn, " concubine " or " harlot " : in order
that the more deeply I humiliated myself before you, the more
favor I should obtain with you, and also the less I should injure
your glory.
And you too, by your leave, had by no means forgotten this,
in that Letter to a Friend sent for his consolation, which I have
recalled above ; in which you have not disdained to set forth
some of the reasons with which I tried to turn you back from
our ill-starred nuptials ; but you are silent on most of those for
which I preferred love to wfehood, liberty to fetters. I call
God to witness that if Augustus, ruling over the whole world,
should think me worthy of marriage, and would settle the entire
globe on me to rule forever, it would seem dearer and worthier
to me to be called your kept mistress than his empress. Bor
not because one is richer or more powerful is he therefore better:
the one is from fortune, the other of virtue. . . .
But what error imparted to others, obvious truth imparted
to me, — since what they rated their husbands at, I, the whole
world, not so much believed as knew to be true of you ; so that
the more truly my love was upon you, the further was it from
error. Who among kings or philosophers could equal your
fame ? What district, city, or hamlet was not on fire to see you ?
Who, I ask, if you were walking in public, did not hasten to
gaze on you; if you were departing, did not follow you with
uplifted neck and straining eyes ? What matron, what virgin,
ABfiLARD. 247
did not long for you when absent and bum for you when pres-
ent ? What queen or the greatest lady did not envy me my
joys and my nuptial beds ?
Two gifts, I own, were especially yours, with which you
could instantly lure the hearts of whatever women you liked ;
namely, charm of language and of singing, with which we
know other philosophers are very little endowed. By these,
as if mere sport to refresh you from the labor of philosophic
exercise, you left many songs composed in amatory meter and
rhythm; which being often repeated, from their exceeding
grace both of words and music, kept your name constantly
in everybody's mouth, insomuch that the sweetness of your
melody prevented even the illiterate from forgetting you.
And hence, chiefly, women sighed for love of you. And since
most of those carols sung our love, in a little while they made
me known through many lands, and kindled the envy of many
women against me.
What quality of mind or person, indeed, did not adorn your
youth ? Who of the then envious ones would not my calamity
now force to pity me, robbed of so many delights ? What former
enemy, man or woman, would not the compassion owed me
soften now?
And though most harmful to you, I am (as you know) most
innocent. For the result is no part of the crime. Equity
weighs not what things are done, but in what spirit they are
done. But what spirit I have always had toward you, you
alone, who have experienced it, can judge. I commit every-
thing to your search, I yield in all things to your testimony.
Tell me one thing if you can, why since our conversion [to
a religious life], which you alone decreed should take place,
I have fallen into such neglect and forgetfulness from you that
I may neither be refreshed with conversation when present nor
consoled with a letter when absent. Tell me, I say, if you
can, or I must tell you what I think, or rather what everybody
suspects. Desire rather than friendship made you my com-j
panion, the ardor of passion rather than love; so that whenl
what you longed for came to an end, olLyou had displayed foJ
itfi sake vanished likewise. I
This, best beloved, is not so much my guess as that of
everybody else, not so much special as general, not so much
private as public. Would that to me alone it seemed so, and
that in excuse for it your love could invent something else
2iH AllCLARD.
Oifni^h which my Rriof might oftlm down
WwiUl that I roiihl feign circiwwtances in
«/'ti«jn^ you, I oouhl hy any moana hide
J'uy iitt«»ntion, <hi, to tho things I adc; and thn-
w.«.i., Mmall and vorv oiwy for yon. While I am rliHnH iT rf
>'Hii ],M'»«iM(T, do at KMwt by votivo offorings of wmdk. otf
v^/i.M ii you \m\v i)UMity, niako tho awMtneas of y
l*H.M III III run. It irt US0I0S8 to oxiH^ot you to be g
H.il il»mf/M if I havo to endure niiw^rlinoM in worda. TsnikrJI
I*' li« ^i'\ nivMflf to have earned a griMit deal from joa mam^
v/ii« n I IhmI iicMfMijplished everything for your sake, and sbBH
|/Mi,i ^ii«il in iIm> utmost in olKnlieneo to you; for indeed 3i
w,.j ji.,J «li vohfMi tu reliiifion that draggiwi me, a young g' "
U.< I...I, liiM.sjH 1,1 monastic intiTeonrso, hut merely yoop
tn..i,'\ If J iiMi raining nothing fnmi you by it, how
I .'n, I. .1/1, 1 in;/! Jiiiltrii. No wages for me l)cyond this
i/< w(«" h <l horn (fod, for whoso love as yet I have ceitainljr
'J'/».« ij'/tlMni; Voii hastening to (lod I have followed in
*'•/ i.iIIh I, liiivr ;.onM» before: for as if mindful of Lot's
/ . nn\t tiiiiH <l ImiiIi, yoii deeded me to (lod by the sacred
in' 1,1, ,iM'l ili< iiioMii.iiir profession bi'foi*e yourself. For thu;
/ o//n I )/iiN jly ;/ih-w>d and bluslied, soh>Iy tluit I must feel
' ' ''<M i,\ you lor l,(iod knows, wouhl not hesitate in the
•' ' ' *•/ |/M *' 'li- Ml IoIImvv VON rushing into a voleano. For my
.' '■* -'/■• ""» Willi nil", hill with you. And now more than
' f ' '* '' '•• i»oi wiih \oii it is nowhert\ Indeed, to exist
//.•/./,ui /ou I.'. oovvi;^r ptjssihhi. But that it may l)0 well with
///I »H' ijiJ, I pMiy. Will IikUmmI it might Iw with you if you
ft* *• lo'ijjiJ fyi II <liMjin;<riJ, if yoii would retum grace for grace,
.//.... »/..<,;/. |i;i f/ii-.ii, words for doeds. Would, beloved, that
/'/*< »'//' jii/KJ lii..^ oj, |,n.^ that it was more anxiousi ButV
h' ' .. **.* \ jij.ij.i yoii 1^0 jHiiply scriire, I have to bear neglect. I
\Un.*ni\,^i, pi.,/ ijjr ihiji^^rt i jiave done, and take hoed how
Wlnh. I ri,j.;y.:.J (|j,,. old delights with you, many thought
ii. do.ihi/.ij whiiihij i was a.riuati'd by love or baser passion;
htii. ii/,'/y ih.. ..w\ ..how;, JVojii what hcgimiing I started. I have
iMunU:\f u,u-iAuu-A jiiyM-lf t'joia ph^isures, that I might obey
yoiii Will. 1 Jiiiv*; irhcivcd jiothiij^r to myself, save thus now
to hi,i:uuu, pai tliMilaily yours. Weigli well, then, how great is
your Hin, \i tJiu ujii^Jj deiicrvijjg you requite with Uttle, or
ABflLARD. 249
rather at most nothing; especially when it is little yon are
asked for, and that the easiest for you.
By that God, therefore, to whom you have o£Fered yoorself
up, I pray that in whatever mode you are able you will restore
me your presence; I mean, some comfort to me by correspond-
ence — at least that made, so that thus refreshed I may apply
myself more cheerfully to divine obedience. When you formerly
sought me for worldly pleasures, you visited me with thiok-
coming letters, and by frequent songs you put your Heloise in
the mouths of all. Every street and every house resounded
j with me. How much more righteously should you now urge \
^ me on to God than then to pleasure I Think well, I beg, on
what you owe; attend to what I ask; and I end a long letter
with a short close — Farewell, darling.
Ab£labd's Aksweb to the Pbboedino.
To nsi<n%e^ his best beloved sister in Christj Abilard hsr brother
in him.
That since our conversion from the world to Gk>d, I have
never written you aught of comfort or encouragement, is to be
imputed not to my neglect but to your good sense, in which I
always fully confide. I had not supposed that she to whom
divine grace had abundantly imparted all that is necessary
stood in need of them, since 'both by words and examples you
can teach the erring, cheer the timid, stimulate the lukewarm.
Tou were wont to do precisely that long ago, when you
held the priorate under the abbess; and if you provide with
as much care for your daughters now as your sisters then, I
believe it to be enough, and pronounce my instruction or ex-
hortation wholly superfluous. But if to your humility it seems
otherwise, and even in the things which pertain to God you
need my tutorship and written discourse, write me which that
I may reply to you as Gt)d shall point the way.
But thank God — who, inspiring in your heart's solicitude
for my very dangerous and constant perils, has made you
sharers in my affection — that by assent to your prayers the
divine pity protects me, and swiftly bruises Satan under our
feet. As to this psalter, particularly, which yon urgently aak
me for [probably by the messenger who oanied the Ittter],
248 AB£LARD.
through which my grief might calm down ever so little.
Would that I could feign circumstances in which, while
excusing you, I could by any means hide usefulness to
myself.
Pay attention, do, to the tilings I ask; and they ought to
seem small and very easy for you. While I am cheated of
your presence, do at least by votive offerings of words, of
which you have plenty, make the sweetness of your image
present to me. It is useless to expect you to be generous in
real things if I have to endure miserliness in words. Truly I
believed myself to have earned a great deal from you now,
when I had accomplislied everything for your sake, and still
persevered to the utmost in obedience to you; for indeed it
was not devotion to religion that dragged me, a young girl, to
the harshness of monastic intercourse, but merely your com-
mand. If I am earning nothing from you by it, how vainly
I am laboring! Judge. No wages for me beyond this are to
be expected from God, for wliose love as yet I hfive certainly
done nothing. You hastening to (lod I have followed in garb
— nay, rather, have gone before; for as if mindful of Lot's wife
having turned back, you deeded me to (jod by the sacred vest-
ments and the monastic profession before youi'self. For this,
I own, I bitterly grieved and blushed, solely that I must feel
less sure of you; for I, (lod knows, would not hesitate in the
least to precede or follow yon rushing into a volcano. For my
spirit was not with me, but with you. And now more than
ever, if it is not with vou it is nowhere. Indeed, to exist
without you is nowise possible. But that it may \ye well with
you, attend, I pray. Well indeed it might be with you if you
were found welWisposed, if you would return grace for grace,
small things for great, words for deeds. Would, beloved, that
your love relied less on me, that it was more anxiousi But v
because I make you so amply secure, I have to bear neglect.
Kemember, pray, the tilings I have done, and take heed how
much vou owe.
While I enjoyed the old delights with you, many thought
it doubtful whether I was actuated by love or baser piissiou;
but now the end shows from what beofinnin*; I started. I have
definitely interdicted myself from pleasures, that I might obey
vour will. I have reserved nothinix to mvsolf, save thus now
to become particularly yours. Weigh well, then, how great is
your sin, if the much deserving you requite with little, or
ABfiLARD. 249
rather at most nothing; especially when it is little you are
asked for, and that the easiest for you.
By that God, therefore, to whom you have offered yourself
up, I pray that in whatever mode you are able you will restore
me your presence; I mean, some comfort to me by correspond-
ence — at least that made, so that thus refreshed I may apply
myself more cheerfully to divine obedience. When you formerly
sought me for worldly pleasures, you visited me with thick-
coming letters, and by frequent songs you put your Heloise in
the mouths of all. Every street and every house resounded
j with me. How much more righteously should you now urge \
me on to God than then to pleasure! Think well, I beg, on
what you owe; attend to what I ask; and I end a long letter
with a short close — Farewell, darling.
Ab£labd's Answeb to the Pbbcbding.
To nSl(n%e^ his best beloved sister in Christy AbSlard her brother
in him*
That since our conversion from the world to God, I have
never written you aught of comfort or encouragement, is to be
imputed not to my neglect but to your good sense, in which I
always fully confide. I had not supposed that she to whom
divine grace had abundantly imparted all that is necessary
stood in need of them, since /both by words and examples you
can teach the erring, cheer the timid, stimulate the lukewarm.
You were wont to do precisely that long ago, when you
held the priorate under the abbess; and if you provide with
as much care for your daughters now as your sisters then, I
believe it to be enough, and pronounce my instruction or ex-
hortation wholly superfluous. But if to your humility it seems
otherwise, and even in the things which pertain to God you
need my tutorship and written discourse, write me which that
I may reply to you as God shaU point the way.
But thank God — who, inspiring in your hearths solicitude
for my very dangerous and constant perils, has made you
sharers in my affection — that by assent to your prayers the
divine pity protects me, and swiftly bruises Satan under our
feet. As to this psalter, particularly, which you urgently ask
me for [probably by the messenger who carried the letter],
260
ABfiLiVKD.
sister once dear in the world, now dearest in Christ, I h&ve
hastened to send it. On it, for our great aad many trans-
gressions, and the imminence of my daily perils, you will offer
a sacrifice of prayers to the everlasting God.
How great a place indeed with God and his saints the
prayers of the faithful hold, and most of all those of women
for their dear ones and of wives for their husbands, many
witnesses and examples occur to us. Carefully heeding them,
the Apostle admonishes us to pray without intermission. It is
written that God said to Moses, " Let me alone, that my wrath
may be kindled." And Jeremiah, "Verily, he saith, do not
thou pray for this people, and do not withstand me." By
which words God himself plainly promises that the prayers
of saints as it were shall cast a sort of bridle on his anger,
in order that even he may be coerced, that ho may not rage
against sinners as much as their blame requires. So that He
whom justice spontaneously prompts to vengeance, the sup-
plication of friends may bend, and as if reluctant, hold him
back as by force. . . .
It is written elsewhere concerning the entire works of God,
"He said and they were made." But in this very place it is
recalled that be pronounced what affliction the people deserved,
and, prevented by virtue of prayer, did not fulfill what he had
threatened. Give heed therefore how great is the virtue of
prayer, if we pray as we are commanded ; when that which God
forbade the prophet to pray tor, yet by praying he obtained,
and, turned Him aside from what he had said. Another prophet
said to Hun also, " When thou art angry, thou shalt remember
mercy."
Let earthly princes hear this and attend, who on occasion
of enacted and proclaimed laws are found more obstinate than
righteous, and blush to seem remiss if they become merciful,
and liars if they change their proclamation or do not carry out
what they have incautiously decreed, though they amend words
with deeds. I might have said that these indeed are rightly
to be compared with Jephtha, who, what he had foolishly vowed
more foolishly fulfilling, slew his own darling. . . .
Would that these things might encourage you and your
convent of holy sisters more confidently to prayer, that for
your sakes He through whom, Paul being witness, women have
obtained back even their dead by resurrection, may preserve
me alive. . . .
AfifiLARD. 251
But let me leave out your convent, in which the devotion
of many virgins and widows is perpetually offered up to God ;
to you alone let me come, whose holiness toward God I doubt
not can do a great deal, and who particularly ought to do
what you can for me, struggling in the crisis of such extreme
adversity. Remember therefore always in your prayers him
who is specially yours. . . .
You know, best beloved, how great a sense that my presence
was dear to them your convent used formerly to display in
prayer. Indeed, they were wont to fill out each hour of the
day with a special supplication to God for me, sung respon-
sively [concluding with this prayer]: "O God, who by thy
servant hast deigned to assemble thy handmaids in thy name,
we beseech thee that thou wilt protect him from all misfortune,
and restore him unscathed to thy handmaids."
But if the Lord shall deliver me into the hands of my
enemies, so that they shall prevail to slay me, or by any chance
I may go the way of all flesh while absent from you, I pray
that my body, wherever it may lie, either buried or exposed,
may be brought back to your cemetery; where my daughters,
or rather sisters in Christ, continually viewing my sepulcher,
may be incited still further to pour out prayers for me to God.
I judge no place safer or wholesomer for the grieving soul, for-
saken in the wilderness of its sins, than that which is fitly con-
secrated to the Paraclete, — that is to say, the Comforter, —
and specially designated by his name. Nor do I deem there is
any place among the faithful where Christian burial can more
appropriately take place than among devoted women. . . •
This finally I ask above everything, that whereas you now
suffer anxiety over the peril of my body, you will then be
equally solicitous for the welfare of my soul, displaying as
much love for the dead as you have for the living, by special
orders of prayer and fitting personal witness. Long life, fare-
well ; long life and farewell to your sisters also. Long life,
but I pray you to remember me in Christ.
252 THE LITTLE FLOWEKS OF SAINT FRANCIS OF ASSISL
THE LITTLE FLOWERS OP SAINT FRANCIS OF
ASSISI.
Tbutslatsd from ths Italian bt ABBT LAN6D0N ALGEB.^
[St. Francis, founder of the Franciscan order, was bom at Assisi, Italy,
in 1182 ; son of a trader who dreamed of a high court career for the merry,
refined, quick-witted youth, who studied little, dressed much, and won the love
of all. But a sickness at twenty-five changed the whole current of Francis* ideala ;
he aspired to a life of self-sacrifice, sought out not only the poor and sick bat
lepers to care for, made a pilgrimage to Rome and threw all he had on the altar
of St Peter's, and joined a troop of beggars, giving in alma all he obtained.
After a violent break with his father, from whom he took property without
warrant to rebuild a ruined church, he founded, about 1208 or 1209, the famous
mendicant order to revive the life which Christ enjoined on his disciples ; the
parallel sisterhood of poor Claras ; and a third order, Tertlaries, or Brethren of
Penitence, for those without vocation to an exclusively religious life. He trav-
eled far and wide — to Spain, the Turkish dominions, and the Holy Land —
preaching the gospel of poverty, and died, worn out, in 1220. The leading trait
of his character was his passionate love for all earthly things, animals as well
as human beings ; he called the animals his brothers, and the stories of his magic
power over them are doubtless based on truth.]
Haw Saint Francis received the Advice of Saint Clara and of
Holy Brother Sylvester^ that he should go forth and preachy
converting the People; and he created the TJiird Order and
preached to the Birds and silenced the young Swallows.
That humble servant of Jesus Clirist, Saint Francis, shortly-
after his conversion, having already gathered together many
companions and received them into the Order, fell into deep
thought and into grave doubt as to what he should do, —
whether he should devote himself wholly to prayer, or whether
indeed he should sometimes preach; and on this subject he
greatly desired to know the will of God. And forasmuch as
the Saintly Humility which was in him would not let him trust
to himself or to his own prayers alone, he strove to seek out
the Divine will through the prayers of others; hence he called
Brother Maximus, and spake to him thus: "Go to Sister
Clara and tell her from me that she, with certain of her most
spiritual companions, shall pray devoutly to God that it may
please Him to reveal to me whether it is better tliat I should
devote myself to preaching, or merely to prayer. And then go
to Brother Sylvester and say the same words." This was that
1 Copyright, 18S8, by Roberts Brothers. Used by permission.
THE LITTLE FLOWERS OF SAINT FRANCIS OF ASSI8L 268
same Master Sylvester who had seen a golden cross come forth
from the mouth of Saint Francis, which was as high as the
heavens and as broad as the confines of the globe. And such
were the devotion and the sanctity of this same Brother Syl-
vester, that whatsoever he asked of God, even that same he
obtained, and his prayer was granted, and many times he spake
with God ; and yet Saint Francis also had great piety. Brother
Maximus went forth, and according to the command of Saint
Francis he fulfilled his errand first to Saint Clara and then to
Brother Sylvester ; who, when he had received it, incontinently
fell to praying, and praying he heard the Divine voice, and
turning to Brother Maximus he said : ^^ Thus saith the Lord,
which you shall repeat to Brother Francis, — that God did not
call him unto this state for himself alone, but that he might
reap a harvest of souls, and many through him shall be saved."
Having this answer. Brother Maximus returned to Saint Clara
to know that which she had obtained of God. And she made
answer that she and her Companions had had from God the self-
same answer which Brother Sylvester had had. With this
Brother Maximus returned to Saint Francis ; and Saint Francis
received him with the utmost Affection, washing his feet and
laying the cloth for him to dine. And after eating. Saint
Francis called Brother Maximus into the thick wood ; and there
he knelt before him, and drawing down his Cowl over his face,
he crossed his arms and asked him, saying, "What does my
Lord and Master, Jesus Christ, command me to do ? " • Brother
Maximus made answer: *'Both to Brother Sylvester and to
Sister Clara, with her Sisters, Christ has replied and made
manifest that it is His will that you shall go forth into the
world to preach ; forasmuch as He did not call you for yourself
alone, but even also for the salvation of others." And then
Saint Francis, when that he had heard this answer and learned
therefrom the will of Jesus Christ, rose up with the greatest
fervor, saying, '* Let us go forth in the name of God." And
he took for his Companions Brother Maximus and Brother
Andrew, holy men both ; and going forth filled with the things
of the Spirit, without considering their road or their way, they
came to a Castle, which is called Savumiano, and Saint Francis
began to preach ; and he first commanded the SwaUows, which
were singing, to keep silence so long as until he should have
preached ; and the Swallows obeyed him ; and he preached in this
place with such fervor that all the men and the women in that
254 THE LITTLE FLOWERS OF SAINT FRANCIS OF ASSISL
Castle, from devotion, would have followedatter him and foraakeu
the Castle; but Saint Francis forbade them, saying, " Be not in
haste, and depart not, and I will order all things which you are
to do for the salvation of your soul." And then he created
the Third Order, for the Universal Salvation of all men ; and
thus leaving many consoled and well disposed to penitence, he
departed from thence and came to Canuajo and Bevagno, And
passing on his way with the selfsame fervor, he raised his eyes
aud saw certain trees by the roadside in which were au infinite
multitude of birds ; at which Saint Francis marveled greatly,
and said to his Companions, " Await me here in the road, and
I will go and preach to my Sisters the birds." And he entered
the field and began to preach to the birds which were on the
ground ; and suddenly those which were in the trees came
down to him, and as many aa there were they all stood quietly
until St. Francis had done preaching ; and even then they did
not depart until such time as he had given them his blessing ; and
according to the later recital of Brother Maximus to Brother
James of Maffa, Saint Francis, moving among them, touched
them with his cape, but not one moved. The substance of
Saint Francis' sermon was this : " My Sisters the birds, ye
are greatly beholden unto God your Creator, and always and
in every place it is your duty to praise Him, forasmuch aa
He hath given you freedom to fly in every place ; also hath He
given you raiment twofold and threefold almost, because He
preserved your Seed in the ark of Noah, that your race might
never be less. Again, ye are bounden to Him for the element
of the air, which He has deputed unto you ; moreover, you bow
not, neither do you reap, aud God feeds you, and gives you the
streams and fountains for your thirst ; He gives you moun-
tains and valleys for your refuge ; tall trees wherein to make
your nests ; and inasmuch as you neither spin nor weave, God
clothes you, you and your children ; lience ye should love your
Creator greatly, Who gives you such great henefita, and there-
fore beware, my Sisters, of the sin of ingratitude, aud ever strive
to praise God." Saint Francis saying these words to them, all
those birds, as many as there were, began to ope their beaks
and stretch forth their necks and spread their wings and rever-
ently to bow their heads even to the earth, and by their acts
and their songs to set forth that the Holy Father gave them
the utmost delight ; and Saint Francis rejoiced with them,
pleased and marveling much to see so vast a multitude of birda.
THE LITTLE FLOWERS OF SAINT FRANCIS OF ASSISL 255
and their most beautiful variety, their attention and familiarity ;
for the which things in them he devoutly praised the Creator.
Finally, his preaching ended, Saint Francis made them the sign
of the Cross and gave them leave to depart ; and then all those
birds rose into the air with wondrous songs ; and then, accord-
ing to the Cross which Saint Francis had made them, they
divided into four parts ; and the one part flew towards the east,
and the other towards the west, and the one part towards the
south, and the other towards the north, and each band went
away singing marvelous songs ; signifying by this how that
Saint Francis, the Ensign of the Cross of Christ, had come to
preach to them, and had made the sign of the Cross over them,
according to which they had scattered to the four quarters of
the globe. Thus the preaching of the Cross of Christ renewed
by Saint Francis was by him and his Brethren borne throughout
the whole world ; which Brethren, even as the birds, possessed
nothing of this world's goods, but committed their life to the
sole and only providence of God.
Of the Most Holy Miracle^ which Saint Francis performed^ when
he converted the very fierce Wolf at Ghuhhio.
In the days when Saint Francis dwelt in the -city of Gubbio,
there appeared in that region a very great, terrible, and fierce
Wolf, the which not only devoured animals, but even also men ;
insomuch that all the citizens of that place stood in great dread
of liim; forasmuch as many times he came very near to the
town ; and nevertheless none who chanced to meet with him
alone could in any wise defend himself against him. And so
great was the fear of this Wolf, that none ventured forth
into the country. Wherefore Saint Francis, having compassion
upon the men of that land, desired to go forth unto this Wolf,
— albeit the citizens, every man among them, counseled him
against it, — and making the sign of the Most Holy Cross, he
set forth into the country round about, he with his companions,
putting all his trust in God. And the others doubting whether
they should go farther, Saint Francis took his way towards the
place where the Wolf lay. And lo, seeing so many citizens, who
had come forth to see such a miracle, the said Wolf came out to
meet Saint Francis with open mouth; and drawing near to him.
Saint Francis made the sign of the Most Holy Cross, and called
unto him, saying : " Come hither. Brother Wolf ; I command
256 THE UTILE FLOWERS OF SAINT FRANCIS OF
you in the n&mg of Christ Jeeus, that you do no manner of evil
either to me or any other man. " Wonderful to relate I Immedi-
ately that Saint Francis made the sign of the Cross, the terrible
Wolf closed his jaws and gave over running ; and hearing this
command, ha came meekly as any lamb, and laid himself down
at the feet of Saint Francis. And thereupon Saint Francis
addressed him in these words, saying : " Brother Wolf, you do
much harm in these parts, and you have done great evil, killing
and devouring Ood's creatures without His sovereign leave.
And not only have you killed and devoured beauts, but yon
hare dared to kill men, made in the image of God; for the which
thing you are worthy of the gallows, like any thief and viUun-
ous murderer ; and all the people cry out and murmur against
you, and all the land is hostile unto yon. But I desire, Brother
Wolf, to make peace between you and them, so that you may
oSend no more, and they shall forgive you all your past
offences, and neither men nor dogs shall pursue you any
more." Having uttered these words, the Wolf by the motions
of his body and hia tail and his eyes, and by bowing hia head,
set forth Uiat he accepted tliat which Saint Francis said, and
desired to observe it. Then Saint Francis began again:
" Brother Wolf, inasmuch as it pleases you to make and to keep
this peace, I promise you that I will aee to it that your living
shall be given you continually, so long as you shall live, by the
men of this country, so that you shall not suffer hunger ; foras-
much as I am well aware that hunger has caused your every
crime. But since I get for you this grace, I require. Brother
Wolf, your promise never again to do harm to any human being,
neither to any beast. Do you promise?" And the Wolf, by
bowing his head, plainly gave sig^ that he promised. And
Saint Francis said farther : " Brother Wolf, I desire you to give
me some token of this your promiae, although I have full faith
in your loyalty." And Saint Fianeis stretching forth his hand,
the Wolf lifted up his riglit paw and confidingly laid it in the
hand of Saint Francis, giving him this pledge of his faith, as
best he could. And then Saint Francis said : " Brother Wolf,
I charge you in the name of Christ Jesus that you now follow
me, nothing doubting, and we will go forth and conclude this
peace in God's name." And the Wolf obediently followed after
him, like any lamb ; so that tlie citizens, seeing this, marveled
greatly. And suddenly the news was spread throughout all the
city : so that the people, men as well as women, great as well
THE LITTLE FLOWERS OF SAINT FRANCIS OF ASSISL 257
as small, young as well as old, flocked to the market place to
behold the Wolf with Saint Francis. And all the people being
gathered together. Saint Francis rose up and began to preach
to them, saying among other things : " Inasmuch as for your
sins, God hath permitted certain evil things and sundry pesti-
lences ; and far more dangerous as are the flames of Hell, which
endure eternally for the damned, than is the wrath of the Wolf,
which can but kill the body, — so much more therefore should
ye fear the jaws of Hell, when the mouth of one small animal
can terrify and alarm so vast a multitude I Turn then, my
Beloved, unto God, and repent worthily of your sins, and God
shall rid you of the Wolf in this present time, and of the fires
of Hell in time to come." And liaving preached. Saint Francis
said : " Hearken, my Brethren : Brother Wolf, who stands here
before you, hath promised and given me a token of his good
faith to make peace with you, and never to offend you more in
anything whatsoever ; and you must promise henceforth to give
him daily all tliJit is needful to him, and I will be bailsman for
him, that he will firmly hold to his compact of peace." Then
all the people with one accord promised to feed him continually.
And Saint Francis, before them all, said to the Wolf: "And
you, Brother Wolf, do you promise to keep the peace with these
people, and to offend no more against men, neither against
beasts, nor any other creatures ? " And the Wolf knelt before
him, and bowed his head, and with submissive motions of body
and tail and ears showed in so far as he was able, that he would
keep his every promise. Saint Francis said : " Brother Wolf,
I desire that even as you gave me a pledge of this your promise
outside the gates, so here before all these people you sliall give
me a token of your good faith, and that you will not cheat me
of my promise and security which I have given for you." Then
the Wolf, lifting up his right paw, laid it in the hand of Saint
Francis. Upon this action and upon those which had gone before,
there was such rejoicing and such marveling in all the people,
both at the devotion of the Saint, and at the novelty of the
miracle, and at the peace with the Wolf, that all began to cry
aloud unto Heaven, praising and blessing God, that had sent
unto them Saint Francis, who by liis great merits had freed
them from the mouth of this cruel beast. And then the said
Wolf lived two years in Gubbio, and entered meekly into every
house, going from door to door, doing no manner of mischief to
any man, and none being done to him. And he was courteously
VOL. IX. — 17
258 CANTICA: OUR LORD CHRIST: OF ORDER.
nourished by the people ; and roaming thus through the land
and from house to house, never any dog barked at his coming
in or at his going out. Finally, after two years. Brother Wolf
died of old age; at the which the citizens mourned much,
inasmuch as seeing him moving so meekly through the city,
they were the more mindful of the virtue and sanctity of Saint
Francis.
CANTICA: OUR LORD CHRIST: OF ORDER,
By ST. FRANCIS OF ASSISL
(TraDBlated by D. G. RossettL)
Set Love in order^ thou that lovest Me.
Never was virtue out of order found ;
And though I fill thy heart desirously,
By thine own virtue I must keep My groimd :
When to My love thou dost bring charity,
Even she must come with order girt and gowned.
Look how the trees are bound
To order, bearing fruit ;
And by one thing compute,
In all things earthly, order's grace or gain.
All earthly things I had the making of
Were numbered and were measured then by Me ;
And each was ordered to its end by Love,
Each kept, through order, clean for ministry.
Charity most of all, when known enough.
Is of her very nature orderly.
Lo, now ! what heat in thee.
Soul, can have bred this rout ?
Thou putt'st all order out.
Even this love's heat must be its ciurb and rein.
COGNITION, EXISTENCE, AND THE SOUL. 269
COGNITION, EXISTENCE, AND THE SOUL.
Bt THOMAS AQUINAS.
[St. Thomas, the most celebrated of the Church logicians, was bom 1224,
of the family of the counts of Aquino. Educated at the University of Naples,
his love for philosophy determined him to become a monk to enjoy a life of
study ; his family imprisoned him to prevent it, but he escaped and entered the
Dominican convent at Cologne, to attend the lectures of the famous Albertus
Magnus. He would not waste time there in giving forth his own views, and
was known as the ^' dumb ox ** ; but a few years later he began to lecture in
Paris, and his immense knowledge of philosophy and ability in dialectic won
him a great reputation. The Sorbonne assailed the mendicant orders ; Thomas
not only wrote a vindication of his order, but, in a debate before the Pope, got
his opponents' books condemned. Called to teach in the cities of Italy, he
finally settled in the convent at Naples, declining an archbishopric. He died in
1274. He was called the ** Angelic Doctor,** and his theological dicta were
practically definitive for the Church ; in modem times he is the one great philo-
sophic authority appealed to by it, Uiough, oddly, he disputed the Immaculate
Conception. His work was to shape the scattered doctrines and precedents of the
Church into a coherent system based on the logical forms of Aristotle, to combat
the havoc which that logic was working with Christianity in the hands of the
great Moslem philosophers. His chief production in this line was the *^ Somma
Theologise,** though his works fill many volumes.]
Cognition.
Democritus, and with him all the naturalistic philosophers,
find the cause and means of cognition in the material atoms
which, detaching themselves from objects, impinge on the
senses. They do not admit that understanding differs from
sensation ; and as evidently cognition has for ita first cause a
modification of the sensory organs, they maintain that it oper-
ates through the senses. Plato, on the contrary, distinguishes
between sensation and intellect ; and as that which is corporeal
cannot act on that which is spiritual, he accords to the latter a
movement and a spontaneity of its own. The exterior impres-
sion is not the efficient cause of the thought, but rather the
mediate cause by the happening of which the soul raises itself
to the contemplation of eternal forms, of ideas, and produces
also cognition in itself. With Democritus, Aristotle admits
that the concurrence of the senses is necessary ; with Plato, he
distinguishes sensation from understanding, and recognizes the
activity of the latter ; only, according to him, impressions are
made on the organ by action direct from the object, not by
intermediaries and by emanation ; and, further, the production
260 COGNITION, EXISTENCi; AND THE SOUL.
of thought does not result from the remembrance or contempla*
tion of ideas, but from the direct activity of the understanding
applied to the data of the senses. The active understanding
causes the transfer from the faculty to the act, by a certain
method of abstraction, of the phenomena received by the senses,
and renders them intelligible, disencumbering them of the
chains which matter has imposed upon them. . . .
It seems to us that Plato has wandered from the truth ;
for, in admitting that all knowledge reposes on the principle
that likes are known by likes, he recognizes that the form of
the object necessarily exists in that object after the same man*
ner as in the thinking subject ; and as the form of the thing
thought is found in the understanding with the characters of
imiversality, of immateriality, and of immobility, it must follow
that it will be encountered after the same manner in the
exterior object. But that is nowise necessarily true, for we
see that the form is far from being the same in all sensible
things : in some of them whiteness is most apparent, in others
less conspicuous; in these it is mingled with sweetness, in
those the latter does not exist. From this it results that the
sensible form is of one fashion in the object which is exterior
to the mind, and another fashion in the senses, which grasp the
sensible forms apart from the matter, as the color of the gold
without the gold. It must be said, then, that the mind cog-
nizes bodies through the intellect by a cognition immaterial,
universal, and necessary. . . .
If it should happen that the object of thought existed
materially in the subject thinking, there would be no reason
why everything material should not tliink : now, things which
receive the matter of objects do not think at all ; the planets,
for example.
The more a being can be cognized immaterially, the more
perfect is the manner of cognizing it. Whence the understand-
ing, which abstracts a specie not alone from matter, but even
from the material conditions which individuate it, cognizes
more perfectly than the senses, which perceive the form of the
cognized object without the matter, it is true, but with the
material conditions. It is that which constitutes the superiority
of the sight over the other senses, and that of the intellect over
all the exterior senses.
COGNITION, EXISTENCE, AND THE SOUL. 261
Whether Matter or Form constitutes Individttality.
Tlie individual, that is, the last degree of being in the order
of substances, of which the essential attributes cannot be af-
firmed of any other — springs from the conjunction of matter
and form : now, the material form is not necessarily incommuni-
cable ; on the contrary, it is of its nature to be capable of com-
munication to many portions of matter, to produce individual
beings. Considered in itself, taken virtually and not actually,
the sensible form is something general, which is not particular-
ized except by its union with matter : at the same time, after
the birth of the individual, the form does not logically lose its
universal character, for if the thought disengages it by a purely
logical procedure from the individual being whose generation
has absorbed it, it appears with its universality and its power
of communicating itself : whence evidently it results that the
form cannot be the principle of individuation. Nevertheless,
by blending itself with matter, it produces the individual ;
that is, a single personal being of which the attributes are
incommunicable. It is necessary, then, that there should be in
the second element of the generation a principle which the
form does not possess; matter must comprise the germ of
individuality, in order that it may be at last the principle of
individuation.
Moreover, that which proves that matter alone can be the
principle of individuation, is that the individual does not exist
except under conditions of time and space : at such or such a
moment, in such or such a place, — that is, under the category
of quantity. Now, matter does not possess being except
through quantity; not that this creates the substance of the
matter, but it necessarily accompanies it, and determines it in
all the points of its duration and its extension.
If it be objected that matter being naturally a general
element, and common to a great number of beings under divine
forms, it would not be able to furnish the principle of individu-
ation, it must be observed that matter cannot be united to
form except under a determined quantity ; that consequently
in its conjunction it is always particular, and presents itself
under the sole condition which permits it to receive the form
destined to produce the ordained individual. Now, this con-
dition changes the manner of existence of the matter, which is
one thing under one determination and another under another.
262 COGNITION, EXISTENCE, AND THE SOUL.
In other words, there must be distinguished in matter its
essence and its mode. The essence, common, general, uniyersal,
remains and persists under all its forms ; but the mode varies,
following the forms with which the matter is clothed. This is
the reason why the generality of its essence does not prevent
the existence of the principle of individuation ; for just as the
accidents are not determined by the primary matter but by
the particular subject, the individual existence in action, so the
substantial forms are individualized by the portion of the
primary matter which is their own subject.
(Supposed objection) : Since the principle of individuation
is matter, the essence which is composed of matter and form
is something particular and not universal ; and it follows that
universals cannot be defined, since the essence is the object of
the definition.
(Answer) : It is not matter taken unconditioned which con-
stitutes the principle of individuation, but matter designated —
that is, taken under certain dimensions. That matter plays no
part in the definition of man iis^man, but it would play one in
the definition of Socrates, if there were a definition of Socrates.
In the definition of man in general, undesignated matter is
taken, for in that definition we are not occupied with a particu-
lar body, but with body in general.
When form is received into matter, all its dimensions being
bounded by the intellect, something becomes existent in the
order of substance, and having the final completed fashion of
an individual in the substance. But this does not become
manifestible here and now except with limited and certain
dimensions, which it is necessary to have whenever the form is
received into the matter ; since it is impossible that it should
be received into matter, except a body be constituted of sub-
stance, under whose o\vn figure are its dimensions. And there-
fore is it said that matter under assigned dimensions is the
cause of individuation: not that the dimensions cause the in-
dividual, since an accident cannot cause its subject, but because
by certain dimensions the individual is made manifest here and
now, as by characters proper to and inseparable from the
individual.
The essence of compounded substances is at the same time
in the form and in the matter, that of simple and spiritual
substances is in the form alone ; whence it follows that the
COGNITION, EXISTENCE, AND THE SOUL. 263
former can be at once the same in species and diverse as to
numbero It is not so with the latter : In them the species is
identical with the individual : there are as many individuals as
species.
Truth.
All that exists has been created for a definite end by the
Almighty power of God and after the laws of His intelligence :
now, that intelligfence is the source and the supreme law of all
truth ; then all beings, by the mere fact that they exist, are
true in an absolute manner.
Beyond the absolute truth which streams from the divine
essence, there exists a relative truth which is grasped by the
action of the understanding; the understanding consists in
an entire conformity of the subject thinking and the object
thought. To recognize if the conformity is exact, the reason
must rise to the forms of the divine conceptions, eternal types
of all things, and take for the criterion of truth the ideas which
the intellect has furnished it.
The Soul.
Let us say that it must necessarily be admitted that the
human soul, or intellectual principle, is incorruptible. All that
exists, in fact, is destroyed either by an internal cause which it
bears in itself, or by an accidental and exterior one. It is
imi)08sible, moreover, that what subsists by itself should be
accidentally destroyed ; as the human soul, for example, which
lives by its own force — differently from the souls of animals.
But does the soul bear in itself a germ of destruction? No-
wise. It is, on the contrary, a pure form ; now, form is that
which gives existence. Matter is destroyed when the form
abandons it, when the existence acting upon it is removed.
But it cannot be thus with form : we cannot suppose the action
of existence destroyed in it : then it is impossible that it should
cease to be.
The senses cannot cognize except in determined time and
space ; while the intellect grasps being in an absolute manner
and under the category of indefinite time. Every intelligent
being desires to exist always ; that desire cannot be vain : we
must then recognize that all intelligent substances must be
incorruptible and immortal.
264 DIES mJR.
DIES IR^.
(Hymn by St Thomas of Celano, aboat 1280.)
Dies iras, dies ilia !
Solvet sseclum in favilla,
Teste David cum Sibylla.
Quantus tremor est futurusy
Quando judex est venturus,
Guncta striate discussurus.
Tuba minim spargens sonum
Per sepulchra regionum
Coget omnes ante thronum.
Mors stupebit et naturay
Cum resurget creatura,
Judicaiiti resiwnsura.
Liber scriptus proferetur
In quo totum continetur^
Unde mundus judicetur.
Judex ergo cum sedebit,
Quidquid latet apparebit:
Kil inultum remanebit.
Quid sum miser tunc dicturus,
Quem patronum rogaturus,
Ciun vix Justus sit securus ?
Rex tremendsB majestatis,
Qui salvandos salvas gratis,
Salva me, fons pietatis.
Recordare, Jesu pie,
Quod sum causa tua3 viae :
Ne mc i^erdas ilia die.
Qucerens me, sedisti lassus
Redemisti, crucem passus :
Tantus labor non sit cassus.
Juste judex ultionis,
Donum fac remiss ionis
Ante diem ratiouis.
DIES nuB. 366
Ingemisooy tanqnain rents
Culpa rubet Tultos mem:
Supplioanti paroe^ Deos.
Qui Mariam abflolvistii
Et latronem ezaudistiy
Mihi quoqu6 spem dedistL
Preoes meed non sunt digiUB;
Sed tu bonus fac benigne :
Ne peienni oremer igne.
Inter oves looum praesta^
Et ab hsBdis me sequestra^
Statuens in parte deztra.
Confutatis malediotis,
Flammis acribus addietisy
Yooa me cum benedictis.
Oro supplex et aoolinis;
Cor oontritum quasi oinui:
Qere ouram mei finis.
Lacrymoea dies iUa^
Qua resurget ex f avilla
Judicandus homo reus :
Huic ergo paroe^ Deus 1
Pie Jesuy Domine^
IX)na eis requiem.
Amen. *
TkunLATKm or &■▼• WnUAM J. EBOHS.
DayofwrathI O day of mourning 1
See I once more the Cross returning—
Heaven and earth in ashes burning 1
O what fear man's bosom rendeth^
When from heaven the judge desosndstb.
On whose sentence all depradetht
Wondrous sound the trumpet flingeUiy
Through earth's sepuldhxes it ringetii^
All befofe the Thioiie it tatingeUL
266 DIES mm.
Death is struck, and nature quaking—
All creation is awaking,
To its Judge an answer making I
Lo, the Book, exactly worded !
Wherein all hath been recorded ; —
Hence shall judgment be awarded.
When the Judge His seat attaineth,
And each hidden deed arraigneth,
Nothing unavenged remaineth.
What shall I, frail man, be pleading—
Who for me be interceding —
When the just are mercy needing ?
King of majesty tremendous,
Who dost free salvation send us,
Fount of pity ! then befriend us !
Think, kind Jesu ! — my salvation
Caused thy wondrous incarnation :
Leave me not to reprobation !
Faint and weary, thou hast sought me,
On the Cross of suffering bought me ; —
Shall such grace be vainly brought me ?
Righteous Judge of Retribution,
Grant thy gift of absolution.
Ere that reckoning-day's conclusion ; ^
Guilty, now I pour my moaning,
All my shame with anguish owning ;
Spare, O God, thy suppliant, groaning.
Thou the sinful woman savedst —
Thou the dying thief f orgavest ;
And to me a hope vouchsafest !
Worthless are my prayers and sighing^
Yet, good Lord, in grace complying.
Rescue me from fires undying !
With thy favored sheep, O place me I
Nor among the goats abase me ;
But to thy right hand upraise me.
DIES nUE. 267
While the wicked are confounded,
Doomed to flames of woe unbounded,
Call me ! with thy saints surrounded.
Low I kneel, with heart-submission ;
See, like ashes, my contrition —
Help me in my last condition !
Ah ! that day of tears and mourning !
From the dust of earth returning
Man for judgment must prepare him :
Spare ! O God, in mercy spare him!
Lord of mercy, Jesus blest^
Orant them thine eternal rest I
Amen.
VxanoM BT THOMAS BfACKELLAR.
Day of wrath ! the day that endeth
Time, the world ablaze, impendeth I
So old prophecy portendeth.
What the trembling consternation
When the Judge of all creation
Comes for strict investigation !
Lo ! the startling trumpet swelling,
Through the graves its blast impelling,
Man before the throne is knelling !
Struck aghast both Death and Nature,
When upcometh every creature
To the dreaded judicature.
Bringing forth the Book indited.
All the world's misdeeds recited
Will in judgment be requited.
When the Judge his seat assumeth,
What is hidden He untombeth ;
None escape whom justice doometh*
Woe is me ! what exculpation ?
Who can proffer mediation.
Since the just scarce find salvation ?
268 DIES IRiE.
King of inajesty astounding !
With thy grace thine own suiroundingi
Save me^ Fount of loye abounding !
Holy Lord ! recall thy yearning^
E'en when I thy ways was spuming;
Keep me on that day of burning !
Waiting, weary, me thou soughtest ;
On the cross my soul thou boughtest ;
Not in vain be work thou wroughtest !
Judge avenging ! with contrition
I entreat thy full remission
Ere that day of inquisition !
Wailing, as one self-accusing.
Guilt my crimsoned face suffusing.
Spare me, Ix)rd I of thy good choosing.
Mary was by thee forgiven.
And by thee the thief was shriven;
Let not hope from me be driven.
Worthless all my prayers ascending,
Yet, thy grace benign extending.
Save me from the fires unending!
With thy sheep infold me ever
At thy right hand, wandering never ;
From the goats my portion sever.
When the wicked, self-confounded.
Are by angry flames surrounded,
Be my name with blessing sounded.
Prostrate, for thy mercy crying.
Heart as if in ashes lying.
Care for me when I am dying.
On that tearful day of terror.
At the fiery resurrection.
Judging man for sinful error,
God, grant this one thy protection I
kind Jesus, Lord and Savior,
Give to them thy restful favor I
Amen.
"ART THOU WEARY?" 269
»
**ART THOU WEARY?
(By St Stephen the Sabaite : translated by J. M. Neale.)
Art thou weary, art thou languid,
Art thou sore distrest ?
" Come to me," saith One, " and coming,
Be at rest."
Hath he marks to lead me to him,
If he be my guide ?
*' In his feet and hands are wound prints,
And his side."
Hath he diadem, as monarch,
That his brow adorns ?
" Yea, a crown, in very surety,
But of thorns."
If I find him, if I follow.
What his guerdon here ?
" Many a sorrow, many a labor,
Many a tear."
If I still hold closely to him.
What hath he at last ?
" Sorrow vanquished, labor ended,
Jordan past"
If I ask him to receive me,
Will he say me nay ?
^'Not till earth and not till heaven
Pass away."
Finding, following, keeping, struggling,
Is he sure to bless ?
Saints, apostles, prophets, martyrs,
Answer, Yes."
a
270 THE RHYTHM OF BERNARD D£ MORLAIX.
THE RHYTHM OF BERNARD DE MORLAIX.
Tkanslatbd bt JOHN MASON NEALB.
[John Mason Neale, an English theologian and hymnologist, was bom in
London, January 24, 1818 ; died at East Grimstead, August 6, 1886. A graduate
of Trinity College, Cambridge, he took orders in the Church of England, became
incumbent of Crawley, and warden of Sackville College, East Grimstead. He
belonged to the most advanced section of the High Church party, and was the
founder of the well-known sisterhood of St. Margaret. Uis works, nearly seventy
in all, include : ** History of the Holy Eastern Church,** ** MedisBval Preachers,'*
and several collections of hymns, original and adapted, among Uiem being the
famous ** Jerusalem the Golden,** based on a portion of Bernard of Cluny*8 ^^De
Contemptu Mundi.**]
[Bernard of Clunt was bom of English parents at Morlaix, Brittany,
about 1140. He was a monk at Cluny, and author of a poem, in three thousand
lines, entitled ** De Contemptu Mundi ** (On the Contempt of World). Portions
of the work were translated by John Mason Neale, the hymns ** Jerusalem the
Golden ** and "The World is Very Evil ** especially becoming very popular.]
The world is very evil ;
The times are waxing late :
Be sober and keep vigil ;
The Judge is at the gate :
The Judge that comes in mercy,
The Judge that comes with might,
To terminate the evil,
To diadem the right.
When the just and gentle Monarch
Shall summon from the tomb,
Let man, the guilty, tremble.
For Man, the God, shall doom.
Arise, arise, good Christian,
TjCt right to wrong succeed ;
Let penitential sorrow
To heavenly gladness lead ;
To the light that hath no evening,
That knows nor moon nor sun,
The light so new and golden.
The light that is but one.
And when the Sole Begotten
Shall render up once more
The kingdom to the Father,
Whose own it was before, —
Then glory yet unheard of
Shall shed abroad its ray,
THE RHYTHM OF BERNARD DE MORLAIX. 271
Besolying all enigmas.
An endless Sabbath day.
Then, then from his oppressors
The Hebrew shall go free,
Aind celebrate in triumph
The year of Jubilee ;
And the sunlit Land that recks not
Of tempest nor of fight,
Shall fold within its bosom
Each happy Israelite :
The Home of fadeless splendor,
Of flowers that fear no thorn,
Where they shall dwell as children,
Who here as exiles mourn.
Midst power that knows no limit,
And wisdom free from bound.
The Beatific Vision
Shall glad the Saints around :
The peace of all the faithful.
The calm of all the blest.
Inviolate, unvaried,
Divinest, sweetest, best.
Yes, peace ! for war is needless, —
Yes, calm ! for storm is past, —
And goal from finished labor.
And anchorage at last
That peace — but who may claim it ?
The guileless in their way.
Who keep the ranks of battle,
W^ho mean the thing they say :
The peace that is for heaven.
And shall be too for earth :
The palace that reechoes
\Vith festal song and mirth ;
The garden, breathing spices,
The paradise on high ;
Grace beautified to glory.
Unceasing minstrelsy.
There nothing e^n be feeble,
There none can ever mourn,
There nothing is divided,
There nothing can be torn :
'Tis fury, ill, and scandal,
Tis peaceless peace below ;
272 THE RHYTHM OF BERNARD D£ MORLAIX.
Peace, endless, strifeless, ageless,
The halls of Syon know.
happy, holy portion,
Refection for the blest ;
True vision of true beauty,
Sweet cure of all distrest I
Strive, man, to win that glory ;
Toil, man, to gain that light;
Send hope before to grasp it,
Till hope be lost in sight :
Till Jesus gives the portion
Those blessed souls to fill,
The insatiate, yet satisfied.
The full, yet craving still.
That fullness and that craving
Alike are free from pain,
Where thou, midst heavenly citizenSy
A home like theirs shall gain.
Here is the warlike trumpet ;
There, life set free from sin ;
When to the last Great Supper
The faithful shall come in :
When the heavenly net is laden
With fishes many and great ;
So glorious in its fullness,
Yet so inviolate :
And the perfect from the shattered.
And the fallen from them that stand,
And the sheep flock from the goat herd
Shall part on either hand :
And these shall pass to torment.
And those shall pass to rest;
The new peculiar nation.
The fullness of the Blest
Jerusalem demands them :
They paid the price on earth,
And now shall reap the harvest
In blissfulness and mirth :
The glorious holy people,
Who evermore relied
Upon their Chief and Father,
The King, the Crucified :
The sacred ransomed niimber
Now bright with endless sheen,
THE RHYTHM OF BERNARD DE MORLAIX. 273
Who made the Gross their watchword
Of Jesus Nazarene :
Who, fed with heavenly nectar,
Where soul-like odors play,
Draw out the endless leisure
Of that long vernal day :
While through the sacred lilies,
And flowers on every side,
The happy dear-bought nations
Go wandering far and wide.
Their breasts are filled with gladness,
Their mouths are tuned to praise.
What time, now safe forever.
On former sins they gaze :
The fouler was the error.
The sadder was the fall.
The ampler are the praises
Of Him who pardoned all.
Their one and only anthem.
The fullness of His love,
Who gives, instead of torment,
Eternal joys above :
Instead of torment, glory ;
Instead of death, that life
Wherewith your happy Country,
True Israelites ! is rife.
Brief life is here our portion ;
Brief sorrow, short-lived care ;
That life that knows no ending,
The tearless life, is There.
O happy retribution !
Short toil, eternal rest ;
For mortals and for sinners
A mansion with the blest I
That we should look, poor wand'rers.
To have our home on high !
That worms should seek for dwellings
Beyond the starry sky !
To all one happy guerdon
Of one celestial grace;
For all, for all, who mourn their fall,
Is one eternal place :
And martyrdom hath roses
VOL. IX. — 18
274 THE RHYTHM OF BEBNARD D£ MOBLAIX.
Upon that heavenly ground:
And white and virgin liliea
For virgin souls abound.
Their grief is turned to pleasnie;
Such pleasure, as below
No human voice can utter.
No human heart can know.
And after fleshly scandal,
And after this world's night,
And after storm and whirlwind^
Is calm, and joy, and light.
And now we fight the battle,
But then shall wear the orown
Of full and everlasting
And passionless renown :
And now we watch and struggle^
And now we live in hope,
And Syon, in her anguish,
With Babylon must cope :
But He whom now we trust in
Shall then be seen and known,
And they that know and see Him
Shall have Him for their own.
The miserable pleasures
Of the body shall decay:
The bland and flattering struggles
Of the flesh shall pass away :
And none shall there be jealous.
And none shall there contend :
Fraud, clamor, guile — what say I ?—
All ill, all ill shall end !
And there is David's Fountain,
And life in fullest glow.
And there the light is golden,
And milk and honey flow:
The light that hath no evening,
The health that hath no sore,
The life that hath no ending^
But lasteth evermore.
There Jesus shall embrace us,
There Jesus be embraced, —
That spirit's food and sunshine
Whence meaner love is chased.
THE RHYTHM OF BERNARD DE MORLAIX. 276
Amidst the happy ohoni%
A place, however low,
Shall show Him us ; and showing^
Shall satiate evenno.
By hope we struggle onward,
While here we must be fed
With milk, as tender infants,
But there with Living Bread.
The night was full of terror,
The mom is bright with gladness :
The Cross becomes our harbor,
And we triumph after sadness :
And Jesus to His true ones
Brings trophies fair to see :
And Jesus shall be loved, and
Beheld in Galilee :
Beheld, when mom shall waken,
And shadows shall decay ;
And each tme-hearted servant
Shall shine as doth the day :
And every ear shall hear it ; —
Behold thy King's array ;
Behold thy Grod in beauty ;
The Law hath past away I
Yes ! God my King and portion,
In fullness of His grace,
We then shall see forever.
And worship face to face.
Then Jacob into Israel,
From earthlier self estranged,
And Leah into Rachel
Forever shall be changed :
Then all the halls of Syon
For aye shall be complete ;
And in the Land of Beauty,
All things of beauty meet
For thee, dear dear Country;
Mine eyes their vigils keep;
For very love, beholding
Thy happy name, they weep:
The mention of Thy glory
Is unction to the breast,
And medioiDe in sioknest,
276 THE RHTTHM OF BERNARD DE MORLAIX
And love, and life, and rest
one, only Mansion I
Paradise of Joy I
Where tears are ever banished
And smiles have no alloy :
Beside thy living waters
All plants are, great and small.
The cedar of the forest,
The hyssop of the wall :
With jaspers glow thy bulwarks ;
Thy streets with emeralds blaze ;
The sardius and the topaz
Unite in thee their rays :
Thine ageless walls are bonded
With amethysts unpriced :
Thy Saints build up its fabric,
And the comer stone is Christ.
The Cross is all tliy splendor.
The Crucified thy praise :
His laud and benediction
Thy ransomed people raise :
Jesus, tlie Gem of Beauty ;
True God and Man, they sing :
The never-failing Garden,
The ever-golden Ring;
The Door, the Pledge, the Husband,
The Guardian of His Court :
The Daystar of Salvation,
The Porter and the Port
Thou hast no shore, fair ocean I
Thou hast no time, bright day I
Dear fountain of refreshment
To pilgrims far away !
Upon the Rock of Ages
They raise thy holy tower :
Thine is the vii* tor's laurel,
And thine the golden dower :
Thou foel'st in mystic rapture,
O l>ride that know'st no guile,
The Prince's sweetest kisses.
The Prince's loveliest smile :
Unfading lilies, bracelets
Of living pearl, thine own ;
The Lamb is ever near thee.
276 THE RHTTHM OF BERNARD DE MORLAIX
And love, and lif e, and rest
one, only Mansion I
Paradise of Joy I
Where tears are ever banished
And smiles have no alloy :
Beside thy living waters
All plants are, great and small.
The cedar of the forest.
The hyssop of the wall :
With jaspers glow thy bulwarks ;
Thy streets with emeralds blaze ;
The sardius and the topaz
Unite in thee their rays :
Thine ageless walls are bonded
With amethysts unpriced :
Thy Saints build up its fabric,
And the comer stone is Christ.
The Cross is all tliy splendor,
The Crucified thy praise :
His laud and benediction
Thy ransomed people raise :
Jesus, the Gem of Beauty ;
True God and Man, they sing :
The never-failing Garden,
The ever-golden Ring ;
The Door, the Pledge, the Husband,
The Guardian of His Court :
The Daystar of Salvation,
The Porter and the Port
Thou hast no shore, fair ocean I
Thou hast no time, bright day I
Dear fountain of refreshment
To pilgrims far away !
Upon the Rock of Ages
They raise thy holy tower :
Thine is the victor's laurel,
And tliine the golden dower :
Thou feePst in mystic rapture,
Bride that know'st no guile,
The Prince's sweetest kisses.
The Prince's loveliest smile :
Unfading lilies, bracelets
Of living pearl, thine own ;
The Lamb is ever near thee.
278 THE RHYTHM OF BERNARD DE MORLAIX.
O sacred, sweet refeotion.
And peace of Seraphim I
thirst, forever ardent.
Yet evermore content!
O true, peculiar vision
Of God cunctipotent !
Ye know the many mansions
For many a glorious name,
And divers retributions
That divers merits claim :
For midst the constellations
That deck our earthly sky,
This star than that is brighter, —
And so it is on high.
Jerusalem the glorious !
The glory of the Elect I
dear and future vision
That eager hearts expect :
Even now by faith I see thee :
Even here thy walls discern :
To thee my thoughts are kindled,
And strive and pant and yearn :
Jeioisalem the only.
That look'st from heaven below,
In thee is all my glory ;
In me is all my woe ;
And though my body may not,
My spirit seeks thee fain.
Till flesh and earth return me
To earth and flesh again.
none can tell thy bulwarks.
How gloriously they rise :
none can tell thy capitals
Of beautiful device :
Thy loveliness oppresses
AH human thought and heart:
And none, peace, O Syon,
Can sing thee as thou art.
New mansion of new people.
Whom God's own love and light
Promote, increase, make holy.
Identify, unite.
Thou City of the Angels I
Thou City of the Lord I
THE RHYTHM OP BERNARD DE MORLAIX.
Whose everlMting musio
Is thi> i^lorious decacliordi
And there the band of ProphetB
United praisd ascribes.
And there the twelvefold obonu
Of Israel's ranHoineil triboe:
The lily beds of vir^DS,
The rosea' martyr glow,
The cohort of the Katiiem
Who kept the faith below.
■ And there the Sole Bogottea
Is Lord in regal state;
lie, Judah's mystic LioD,
He, Lamb Immaeulat*.
helds that know no sorrow !
state that fears no strife !
princely bowers 1 O laiid of Hovenl
Kealin and Home of Lifel
Jerusalem, exulting
On that securest shore,
1 hope thee, wish thee, sing thee.
And love thee evermore I
I ask not for my merit:
1 seek not to deny
My merit is destruction,
A child of wrath am I;
But yet with Faith I venture
And Hope upon my way;
For those perennial guerdons
I labor night and day.
The Best and Dcar«it Father
Who made me and Who sared,
Bore with me in defilement,
And from defilement larod:
When in His strength I struggle,
For very joy I leap ;
When in my sin I tott«r,
1 weep, or try to weep:
And grace, sweet grace oelcstial^
Shall all Hx love display,
And L>!trid's Royal Fountain
I'iirg« evory sin away.
mine, my golden Syou 1
lovelier far than gold]
280 EASTER HTMN.
With lanrel-girt battalions^
And safe victorious fold:
O sweet and blessed Countiy,
Shall I ever see thy face ?
sweet and blessed Countiy,
Shall I ever win thy grace?
1 have the hope within me
To comfort and to bless !
Shall I ever win the prize itself ?
tell me, tell me, Tes I
Exnlt, O dust and ashes !
The Lord shall be thy part:
His only, His forever,
Thou shalt be, and thou art I
Exult, O dust and ashes !
The Lord shall be thy part:
His only. His forever,
Thou shalt be, and thou art
woCQiSoo-
EASTER HYMN.
By ADAM OP ST. VICTOR.
[Twelfth century.]
(Translation of J. M. Neale.)
Hail the much-remembered day !
Night from morning flies away,
Life the chains of death hath burst ;
Gladness, welcome ! grief, begone !
Greater glory draweth on
Than confusion at the first.
Flies the shadowy from the true ;
Flies the ancient from the new :
Comfort hath each tear dispersed.
Hail, our Pascha, that wast dead !
What preceded in the Head,
That each member hopes to gain ;
Christ our newer Pascha now.
Late in death content to bow.
When the spotless Lamb was slain.
EASTER HTMN.
Christ the prey hath here unbound
From the foe that girt us round j
Which in Samson's deed is found,
When the lion he had slain :
David, in his Father's cause,
From the lion's hungry jaws,
And the bear's devouring paws,
Hath eet free his flock again.
He that thousands slew by dying,
Samson, Christ is tp^pifying.
Who by death o'ercame his foes:
Samson, by interpretation.
Is " their sunlight " ; our salvation.
Thus hath brought illumination
To the elect on whom he rose.
From the Cross's pole of glory
Flows the must of aucient story
In the Church's wine vat stored:
From the press, now trodden duly,
Gentile first-fruits gathered newly
Drink the precious liquor poured.
Sackcloth worn with foul abuses
Passes on to royal uses;
Grace iu titat garb at length we see,
The fleab hath conquered misery.
They by whom their Monarch perished
Lost the Kingdom that they cherished,
And for a sign and wonder Cain
Is set who never shall be slain.
Reprobated and rejected
Was this stone that, now elected,
For a trophy stands erected
And a precious comer stone :
Sin's, not Nature's termination,
He creates a new creation,
And, Himself their colligation,
Binds two peoples into one.
Give we glory to the Head,
O'er the members love be shed I
282 CHARACTER OF ST. LOUIS.
CHARACTER OF ST. LOUIS.
bt jean de jomyiLLE.
[Louis IX. of France, son of Louis Yin. and grandson of Philip Angnstof,
was bom 1215, and acceded 1226 ; but his mother, Blanche of Castile, educated
him like a monk and kept him in tutelage till long past manhood. In the Sixth
Crusade (1248-60), undertaken by him, he was captured by the Saracens, and
only ransomed and returned to France in 1254. In the Barons* War of Simon
de Montfort against Henry III., Louis was made arbitrator and decided every-
thing in Henry's favor. His unselfish justice, however, for which he was so
chosen, was so conspicuous in that age that it has been pronounced an injury to
the country, — not only by giving up its holdings, but as greatly strengthening
the royal power, the people resigning rights and charters in reliance on Louis*
personal good faith. He died on the Seventh Crusade in 1270.]
[Jean de Joinville, bom about 1224, was hereditary seneschal of Cham-
pagne and therefore a high court official of France. He followed Louis DL
on the Sixth Crusade, and remained in the East six years, till the ransom of
Louis. His chief work la the '' History of St. Louis ** (1300). He died in 1317.]
This holy man, King St. Louis, loved and feared God
during his life above all things, and, as is very apparent, was
in consequence favored in all his works. As I have before
said that our God died for his people, so in like manner did
St. Louis several times risk his life and incur the greatest
dangers for the people of his realm, as shall be touched on
hereafter.
The good king, being once dangerously ill at Fontainebleau,
said to my lord Louis, his eldest son, ^^ Fair son, I beseech
thee to make thyself beloved by the people of thy kingdom ;
for, in truth, I should like better that a Scotsman, fresh from
Scotland, or from any other distant and unknown country,
should govern the subjects of my realm well and loyally, than
that thou shouldst rule them mckedly and reproachfully."
The holy king loved truth so much, that even to the Sara-
cens and infidels, although they were his enemies, he would
never lie, nor break his word in anything he had promised
them, as shall be noticed hereafter. With regard to his food,
he was extremely temperate ; for I never in my whole life
heard him express a wish for any delicacies in eating or drink-
ing, like too many rich men ; but he sat and took patiently
whatever was set before him.
In his conversation he was remarkably chaste ; for I never
heard him at any time utter an indecent word, nor make use
of the deviPs name, which, however, is now very commonly
CUARACT£R OF ST. LOUIS. 288
uttered by every one, but which I firmly believe is so far from
being agreeable to God, that it is highly displeasing to Him.
He mixed his wine with water by measure, according to the
strength of it, and what it would bear. He once asked me
when at Cyprus, why I did not mix water with my wine. I
answered what the physicians and surgeons had told me, that
I had a large head and a cold stomach, which would not bear
it. But the good king replied that they had deceived me, and
advised me to add water ; for that if I did not learn to do so
when young, and was to attempt it in the decline of life, the
gout and other disorders, which I might have in my stomach,
would greatly increase ; or, perhaps, by drinking pure wine in
my old age, I should frequently intoxicate myself ; and that
it was a beastly thing for an honorable man to make himself
drunk.
My good lord, the king, asked me at another time, if I
should wish to be honored in this world, and afterward to gain
paradise ; to which I answered, that I should wish it were so.
" Then," said he, " be careful never knowingly to do or say
anything disgraceful, that should it become public, you may
not have to blush, and be ashamed to say I have done this, or
I have said that." In like manner he told me never to give
the lie, or contradict rudely whatever might be said in my
presence, unless it should be sinful or disgraceful to suffer it,
for oftentimes contradiction causes coarse replies and harsh
words, that bring on quarrels, which create bloodshed, and
are the means of the deaths of thousands.
He also said, that every one should dress and equip himself
according to his rank in life, and his fortune, in order that the
prudent and elders of this world may not reproach him, by say-
ing such a one has done too much, and that the youth may not
remark, that such a one has done too little, and dishonors his
station in society. On this subject, I remember once the good
lord king, father to the king now on the throne, speaking of
the pomp of dress, and the embroidered coats of arms that are
now daily common in the armies, I said to the present king,
that when I was in the Holy Land with his father, and in his
army, I never saw one single embroidered coat or ornamented
saddle in the possession of the king his father, or of any other
lord. He answered, that he had done wrong in embroidering
his arms ; and that he had some coats that had cost him eight
hundred Parisian livres. I replied, that he would have acted
284 CHARACTEK OF ST. LOUIS.
better if he had given them in charity, and had his dress made
of good sendai, lined and strengthened with his arms, like as
the king his father had done.
The good king, once calling me to him, said he wanted to
talk with me, on account of the quickness of understanding he
knew I possessed. In the presence of several, he added, "I
have called these two monks, and before them ask you this
question respecting God: Seneschal, what is God?" "Sire,"
replied I, "he is bo supremely good, nothing can exceed him."
" In truth," answered the king, " that is well said, for your
answer is written in the little book I liave in my band. I will
put another question to you, whether you had rather be * mezean
et ladre,' or have committed, or be about to commit, a mortal
sin? " But I, who would not tell a lie, replied, that " I would
rather have committed thirty deadly sins tlian be a leper."
When the two friars had gone away, he called me to him
alone, making me sit at his feet, and said, " How could you
dare to make the answer you did to my last question ? " When
I replied, " Were I to answer it again, I should repeat the same
thing." he instantly said, — "Ah, foul Musart! Musart, you
are deceived ; for you must know there can be no leprosy so
filthy as deadly sin, and the soul that is guilty of such is like
the devil in hell. It is very true," be added, " that when the
leprous man is dead, he is cured of that disorder ; but when the
man who has committed a deadly sin dies, he is not assured
for certain that he had sufficiently repented of it before his
death to induce the goodness of God to pardon him : for whicb
cause he must have great fears lest this leprosy of sin may en-
dure for a length of time, even so long as God may remain in
paradise.
"I therefore entreat of you, first for the love of God, and
next for the afEection you bear me, that you retain in your
heart what I have said, and that you would much rather prefer
having your body covered with the most filthy leprosy than
Buffer your soul to commit a single deadly sin, which is of all
things the most infamous."
He then inquired if I washed the feet of the poor on Holy
Thursday. On which I said, " Oh, for shame, no ; and never
will I wash the feet of such fellows." "This is in truth," re-
plied he, " very ill said, for you should never hold in disdain
what God did for our instruction, for He who is lord and mas-
ter of the muTerse, on that same day, Holy Thursday, washed
i^kAAi
CHARACTER OF ST. LOUIS. 286
the feet of all His apostles, telling them, that He who was their
master had thus done, that they, in like manner, might do the
same to each other. I therefore beg of you, out of love to Him
first, and then from your regard to me, that you would accus-
tom yourself to do so."
He loved every one who, with uprightness of heart, feared
and loved God ; insomuch that from the great reputation he
had heard of my brother Sir Gilles de Bruyn, who was not a
Frenchman, for his fear and love of God, as was the truth, he
appointed him constable of France.
In like manner, from the favorable report which he had
heard of Master Robert de Sorbon being a courageous and dis-
creet man, he made him one of his personal attendants, and per-
mitted him to partake of his table. One time, as we were
sitting near each other, and eating and drinking at the king's
table, we conversed together in a low voice, which the good
king observing, reprimanded us by saying, " You act wrong thus
to whisper together ; speak out, that your companions may not
suspect you are talking of them to their disadvantage, and
railing at them. When eating in company, if you have any
things to say that are pleasant and agreeable, say them aloud,
that every one may hear them ; if not, be silent."
When the good king was in a cheerful mood, he frequently
put questions to me in the presence of Master Robert ; and once
he said, " Seneschal, now tell me the reason why a discreet man
is of more worth than a valiant man." Upon this a noisy dis-
pute arose between Master Robert and me ; and when we had
long argued the question, the good king thus gave his judgment :
" Master Robert, I should not only like to have the reputation
of a discreet man, but to be so in reality, and your other dis-
tinctions you may keep ; for discretion is of such value, that
the very word fills the mouth. On the contrary," added the
good king, " it is most wicked to take the goods of others ; for
the surrendering of them to their rightful owners is so griev-
ous that the pronouncing of it tears the palate, from the number
of rrr's that are in the word ; which rrr's signify the rents of
the devil, who daily draws to him all those who wish to give
away the chattels of others they have seized upon. The devil
does this much with subtlety, for he seduces the usurers and
despoilers, and iu*ges them to give their usuries and rapines to
the Church, in honor of God, which they ought to restore to
their proper owners, who are well known to them." When
286 CHA&ACTER OF ST. LOUIS.
thus oonversing he told me to say in his name to King Thibaat«
his son-in-law, that he must look well to his actions, and not
overcharge his soul, thinking to acquit himself by the large
sums which he gave, or should leave to the monastery of father-
preachers in Provins ; for the discreet man, as long as he live6»
ought to act like to the faithful executor of a will. First, he
ought to restore and make amends for any wrongs or misdeeds
done to others by the deceased ; and from the residue of the
fortune of the dead he should give alms to the poor, in the name
of God, as the Scripture plainly showeth.
The holy king was, one Whitsun holidays, at Corbeil, accom-
panied by full three hundred knights, and also by Master
Robert de Sorbon and myself. After dinner, the king went
into the meadow above the chapel, to speak with the earl of
Brittany, father to the present duke, whose soul may Qod
receive, when Master Robert, taking hold of my mantle, in the
presence of the king and the noble company, asked my opinion,
whether, if the king should seat himself in this meadow, and I
were to place myself on a bench above him, I should or should
not, be blamable ; to which I answered, " Yes, most certainly."
" Why, then," added he, " do not you think yourself blame-
worthy for being more richly dressed than the king ? " " Master
Robert," replied I, " saving the king's honor and youra, I am
in this respect blameless ; for the dress I wear, such as you see
it, was left me by my ancestors, and I have not had it made
from my own authority. It is you, on the contrary, that
deserves being reprimanded ; for you are descended from bond-
men, on both sides, have quitted the dress of your ancestors,
and have clothed yourself in finer camlet than what the king
now wears."
I then took hold of his surcoat, and compared it with what
the king had on, saying, " Now see, if I did not tell the truth.*'
The king, upon this, undertook the defense of Master Robert,
and to save his honor as much as he could, declared the very
great humility he possessed, and how kind he was to every one.
After this conversation, the good king called to him my
lord Philip, father to the king now on the throne, and
King Thibaut, his son-in-law, and seating himself at the door
of his oratory, he put his hand on the ground, and said to his
sons, ^^ Seat yourselves here near me, that you may be oat of
sight." " Ah, sir," replied they, '* excuse us, if you please ; for
it would not become us to sit so close to you." The king, Umd
St. Louis and St. Vincent de Beauvais
From the painting by Charlnin
CHARACTER OF ST. LOUM. 287
addressing me, said, ^^ Seneschal, sit down here," which I did,
and so near him that my robe touched his. Having made them
sit down by my side, he said, " You have behaved very ill, be-
ing my children, in not instantly obeying what I ordered of
you ; and take care that this never happen again.'* They
answered, that they would be cautious it should not.
Then turning towards me, he said, that he had called us to
him to confess to me that he had been in the wrong in taking
the part of Master Robert ; " but," continued he, " I did so
from seeing him so much confounded, that he had need of my
assistance ; you must not, however, think or believe that I did
it from the conviction of his being in tlie right ; for, as the
seneschal said, every one ought to dress himself decently, in
order to be more beloved by his wife, and more esteemed by his
dependants." The wise man says, we ought to dress ourselves
in such manner that the more observing part of mankind may
not think we clothe ourselves too grandly, nor the younger
part say we dress too meanly.
One day a good Cordelier friar came to the king, at the
castle of Hieres, where we had disembarked, and addressed
him, saying, that he had read in the Bible and other good
books which spoke of unbelieving princes ; but that he never
found a kingdom of believers or unbelievers was ruined but
from want of justice being duly administered. " Now," con-
tinued the Cordelier, "let the king, who I perceive is going
to France, take care that he administer strict and legal justice
to his people, in order that our Lord may suffer liim to enjoy
his kingdom, and that it may remain in peace and tranquillity
all the days of his life." . • .
This Cordelier would not remain longer with the king than
one day, in spite of all the entreaties that were made him.
The good king was not forgetful of what the friar had told
him, to govern his realm loyally according to the laws of God,
but was anxious that justice should be done to all, according
to the manner you shall hear.
It was customary after the lord de Neeles, the good lord de
Soissona, mj'self, and others that were about the king's person,
had lieard mass, for us to go and hear the pleadings at the
gateway, which is now called the Court of Requests, in the
palace at Paris. When the good king was in the morning
returned from the church, he sent for us, and inquired how
things had passed, and if there were any matters that required
288 CHARACTER OF ST. LOUIS.
hia decision. And when we told him that there were some,
he sent for the parties, and asked them why they would not
be contented with the sentence of his officers, and then in-
stantly made their difEerences up to their satisfaction, accord-
ing to the custom of this godly king. . , .
I remember all the prelates of France once assembled at
Paris, to upeak with the good St. Louis, and to make him a
request ; which, when he was told, he went to the palace to
hear what they would say. The meeting being full, it was the
bishop Guy d'Auseure, son to the lord William de Melot, who
addressed the king, by the unanimous assent of the other preU
ates, as follows: "Sire, know that all these prelates here
assembled in your presence, instruct me to tell you that you
are mining Cliristendom, and that it is sinking in your hands."
The king, upon this, crossed himself, and said, "Bishop,
inform me how this happens, and by what cause," "Sire,"
answered the bishop, " it is because no notice ia taken of ex-
communicated persons ; for at this moment a man would rather
die in a state of excommunication than be absolved, and wUl
no way make satisfaction to the Church. It is for this reason,
sire, that they unanimously call on you, in the name of God,
and in conformity to your duty, that you would be pleased to
command your bailiffs, provosts and other administrators of
justice, that wherever in your realm they shall find any one
who has been excommunicated a whole year and a day, they
constrain him to be absolved by the seizure of his goods."
The holy man replied that he would most cheerfully order
this to be done to every one who should be found unjust towards
the Church, or towards his parents. The bishop said it only
belonged to them to be acquainted with their own cause of
complaint. To this, the good king said, he would not act
otherwise, and that it would be blamable before God, and
against reason, to force those who had been injured by the
churchmen to absolve themselves without being heard in their
own defense. And he quoted, as an example, the count of
Brittany, excommunicated aa he was, having pleaded for seven
years against the prelates of Brittany, and at last brought the
business before our holy father the pope, who gave judgment
against them in favor of the count. "Now, should I have
constrained the count to seek absolution instantly after the
expiration of the first year, he would have been forced to allow
these prelates their demands whether he would or not, and I
CHARACTER OF ST. LOUIS. 289
should, by so doing, have behaved wickedly towards God and
towards the count of Brittany."
After the prelates had heard this, they were satisfied with
the favorable answer tlie king had made them ; and from that
time I have never heard that there was further question about
it.
The peace which St. Louis made with the king of England
was contrary to the opinion of his whole council, who said to
him, " Sire, it seems to us that you are doing wrong to your
realm by giving up so much of its territory to the king of Eng-
land, to which he appears to us not to have any right, since his
father lost it by a legal sentence." The king replied, that he
knew well the king of England had no right to it ; but that,
for a good reason, he thought he was bound to give it to him,
adding, " We have married two sisters ; our children are there-
fore cousins-german, and it is fitting that there should be
union between us. It has likewise given me great pleasure to
make peace with the king of England, for he is at present my
vassal, which was not the case before."
The uprightness of the good king was very apparent in the
case of the lord Reginald de Trie, who brought to the holy man
letters which declared he had given to the heirs of the countess
of Boulogne, lately deceased, the county of Dammartin, which
letters were disfigured and the seals broken. All that remained
of the seals were one-half of the legs of the king's efligies and
the chantel on which the royal feet were placed.
Tlie king showed these letters to us who were of his council,
to have our advice on the occasion. We were unanimously of
opinion that the king was not bounden to put these letters into
execution, and that the persons mentioned in them ought not
to enjoy that county. The king instantly called to him John
Sarrazin, liis chaml)erlain, and asked for the letter which he
had coninuinded him to draw up. When he had examined it,
he looked at the seal, and at the remains of that on the letters
of Sir Reginald, and then said to us, " My lords, this is the
seal I made use of before I went to the Iloly Land, and the
remnant on these letters so much resembles the whole seal that
I dare not, witliout sinning against God and reason, retain the
county of Dammartin." He then called for the lord Reginald
de Trie, and said, " My fair sir, I restore to you the county
which you demand."
TOL. IX. — 19
290 CANZONE, OF HIS LADT IN BONDAGE.
CANZONE, OF HIS LADY IN BONDAGE.
Bt emperor FREDERICK IL
(Translated by D. O. BoBsettL)
[Fbbdbrick II., bom 1194, was son of the Emperor Henry VL and grandson
of Frederick I. (Barbarossa), of the Uohenstaufen house ; his mother was Con-
stance, heiress of the Two Sicilies. His father died 1107, his mother 1198, after
securing his coronation as King of the Sicilies by making them Aefs of the Pa-
pacy, which acted as his guardian and educated him. He assumed the govern-
ment at fourteen. In 1212 the Pope excommunicated and deposed Otto IV., and
set up Frederick as a candidate ; and after some years of war Frederick crushed
his rival and was crowned. But he had the inevitable quarrel with the Papacy,
and his latter years were a steadily losing struggle against the equally inevitable
excommunications and depositions. He died, worn out by suffering and dis-
appointment, in 1260. He was a magnificent patron and founder in arts, letters,
and education.]
For grief I am about to sing,
Even as another would for joy ;
Mine eyes which the hot tears destroy
Are scarce enough for sorrowing :
To speak of such a grievous thing
Also my tongue I must employ,
Saying : Woe's me, who am full of woes I
Not while I live shall my sighs cease
For her in whom my heart found peace :
I am become like one of those
That cannot sleep for weariness,
Now I have lost my crimson rose.
And yet I will not call her lost ;
She is not gone out of the earth ;
She is but girded with a girth
Of hate, that clips her in like frost
Thus says she every hour almost : —
" When I was born, 'twas an ill birth I
that I never had l>een born.
If I am still to fall asleep
Weeping, and when I wake to weep ;
If he whom I most loathe and scorn
Is still to have me his, aud keep
Smiling about me night and morn I
CANZONE, OF HIS LADT IN BONDAGE. 291
" that I never had been born
A woman ! a poor, helpless fool,
Who can but stoop beneath the rule
Of him she needs must loathe and scorn !
If ever I feel less forlorn,
I stand all day in fear and dule.
Lest he discern it, and with rough
Speech mock at me, or with his smile
So hard you scarce could call it guile :
No man is there to say, * Enough.'
O, but if God waits a long while.
Death cannot always stand aloof I
" Thou, God the Lord, dost know all this :
Give me a little comfort then.
Him who is worst among bad men
Smite thou for me. Those limbs of his
Once hidden where the sharp worm is,
Perhaps I might see hope again.
Yet for a certain period
Would I seem like as one that saith
Strange things for grief, and murmureth
With smitten palms and hair abroad :
Still whispering under my held breath,
' Shall I not praise Thy name, O God ? '
" Thou, God the Lord, dost know all this :
It is a very weary thing
Thus to be always trembling :
And till the breath of his life cease,
The hate in him will but increase,
And with his hate my suffering.
Each mom I hear his voice bid them
That watch me, to be faithful spies
Lest I go forth and see the skies ;
Each night, to each, he saith the same ; —
And in my soul and in mine eyes
There is a burning heat like flame."
Thus grieves she now ; but she shall wear
This love of mine, whereof I spoke.
About her body for a cloak,
And for a garland in her hair,
Even yet : because I mean to proye,
Not to speak only, this my loya
THE EMPEROR FREDERICK THE SECOND.
THE EMPEROR FREDERICK THE SECOND.
Bl EDWARD A. FSEEMAIf.
[Sdwibd Auddstiti FitBBM*N, a lesdiug English historical scboUr, was tmni
in StaltardBhire, August 2, 1823 ; becnuie a Fellow of Trinity College, Oztord. Uis
flrat preoccupation viaa with medlsval architecture, which led bim to ecclesiastl-
caJ and poliUcal antiquarian studies ; he very early formed the design of writing
the history of tlie ^nesis, achleTement.aiid eflects of the Norman Conquest; bis
detestation alike of the Turks and of the Austrian Kmplre which protected Europe
from the Turks — as both built up on the rulna of the freedom of the East Ea-
Topean states — was the basis of a vaat quantity of essay and review writing on
mediieval Europe ; and there was hardly any historical subject which was not
touched upon by bis tireless iodustry, and his enormous and minute schoUrship.
His first work was a "History of Architecture'" (IMS) ; his next a series ot
lectures on the ■' History and Conquests of the Saracens" {18b6); the chief of
his many other works are the unfinished "History of Federal Government"
(1863) ; his masterpiece, the " History of the Norman Conquest" (1887-1870 ;
supplementary volume on the reign of Williiun Rufus, iu 1882) ; several worta
on early English history, the English constituUon, etc.; " Historical Geography
of Europe," "General Sketch of European History," and several others in thla
line; "Comparative Politics"; the " Continuity of History " ; tour volumes of
"Historical Essays"; "Methods of Historical Study"; lectures at Oxford,
where he was regius professor of modem history, and four volumes of a " His-
tory of Sicily" Intended lo fill fourteen (1891-18M). He died at Alicante,
Spain, March 16, 1892.]
It is probable that there never lived a human being endowed
with greater natural gifts, or whose natural gifts were, accord-
ing to the means afforded him by his age, more sedulously
cultivated, than the last Emperor of the bouse of Swabia.
There seems to be no aspect of human nature which was not
developed to the highest degree in bis person. In versatility
of gifts, in what we may call many-sidedness of character, be
appears as a sort of mediseval Alcibiades, while he was undoubt-
edly far removed from Alcibiades' utter lack of principle or
steadiness of any kind. Warrior, statesman, lawgiver, scholar,
there was nothing in the compass of the political or intellectual
world of his age which he failed to grasp. In an age of change,
when, in every corner of Europe and civilized Asia, old king-
doms, nations, systems, were falling and new ones rising, Fred-
erick was emphatically the man of change, the author of things
new and unheard of — he was stupor mundt et immutator mira-
bilU. A suspected heretic, a suspected Mahometan, be was
the object of all kinds of absurd and self -contradictory charges ;
THE EMPEROR FREDERICK THE SECOND. 293
but the charges mark real features in the character of the man.
He was something unlike any other Emperor or any other man ;
whatever professions of orthodoxy he might make, men felt in-
stinctively that his belief and his practice were not the same as
the belief and the practice of other Christian men. There can
be no doubt that he had wholly freed his mind from the tram-
mels of his own time, and that he had theories and designs
which, to most of his contemporaries, would have seemed mon-
strous, unintelligible, impossible.
Frederick in short was, in some obvious respects, a man of
the same stamp as those who influence their own age and the
ages which come after them, the men who, if their lot is cast in
one walk, found sects, and if it is cast in another, found empires.
Of all men, Frederick the Second might have been expected to
be the founder of something, the beginner of some new era,
political or intellectual. He was a man to whom some great
institution might well have looked back as its creator, to whom
some large body of men, some sect or party or nation, might
well have looked back as their prophet or founder or deliverer.
But the most gifted of the sons of men has left behind him
no such memory, while men whose gifts cannot bear a com-
parison with his are reverenced as founders by grateful nations,
churches, political and philosophical parties. Frederick in fact
founded nothing, and he sowed the seeds of the destruction of
many things. His great charters to the spiritual and tem-
poral princes of Germany dealt the deathblow to the Imperial
power, while he, to say the least, looked coldly on the rising
power of the cities and on those commercial leagues which
were in his time the best element of German political life.
In fact, in whatever aspect we look at Frederick the Second,
we find him, not the first, but the last, of every series to which
he belongs. An English writer, two hundred years after his
time, had the penetration to see that he was really the last
Emperor. (Capgrave, in his Chronicle, dates by Emperors
down to Frederick, and then adds: "Fro this tyme forward
oure annotacion schal be aftir the regne of the Kyngis of Yng-
lond ; for the Empire^ in maner^ sesed here.^^^ He was the last
prince in whose style the Imperial titles do not seem a mockery ;
he was the last under whose rule the three Imperial kingdoms
retained any practical connection with one another and with the
ancient capital of all. Frederick, who sent his trophies to
Rome to be guarded by his own subjects in his own city, was
294 THE EMPEROR FREDERICK THE SECOND.
a Roman Cscsar in a sense in which no other Emperor was after
him. And he was not only the last Emperor of the whole Em-
pire: he might almost be called the last king of its several
kingdoms. After his time Burgundy vanishes as a kingdom ;
there is hardly an event to remind us of its existence except
the fancy of Charles the Fourth, of all possible Emperors, to
go and tjike the Burgundian crown at Aries. Italy too, after
Frederick, vanishes as a kingdom ; any later exercise of the
royal authority in Italy was something which came and went
wholly by fits and starts. Later Emperors were crowned at
Milan, but none after Frederick was King of Italy in the same
real and effective sense that he was. Germany did not utterly
vanisli, or utterly split in pieces, like the sister kingdoms ; but
after Frederick came the Great Interregnum, and after the
Great Interregnum the royal power in Germany never was
what it had been before. In his hereditary kingdom of Sicily
he was not absolutely the last of his dynasty, for his son Man-
fred ruled prosperously and gloriously for some years after his
death. But it is none the less clear that from Frederick's time
the Sicilian kingdom was doomed ; it was marked out to be,
what it has been ever since, divided, reunited, divided again,
tossed to and fro between one foreign sovereign and another.
Still more conspicuously than all was Frederick the last Chris-
tian King of Jerusalem, the last baptized man who really ruled
the Holy Land or wore a crown in the Holy City. And yet,
strangely enough, it was at Jerusalem, if anywhere, that Fred-
erick might claim in some measure the honors of a founder.
If he was the last more than nominal King of Jerusalem, he
was also, after a considerable interval, the first ; he recovered
the kingdom by his own address, and, if he lost it, its loss was,
of all the misfortunes of his reign, that which could be with the
least justice attributed to him as a fault.
In the world of elegant letters Frederick has some claim to
be looked on as the founder of that modern Italian language
and literjiture which first assumed a distinctive shape at his
Sicilian court. But in tlie wider field of political history
Frederick appears nowhere as a creator, but rather everywhere
as an involuntary destroyer. He is in everything the last of
his own class, and he is not the last in the same sense as princes
who perish along with their realms in domestic revolutions or
on the field of battle. If we call him the last Emperor of the
West, it is in quite another sense from that in which Constan-
THE EAiPEROR FREDERICK THE SECOND. 296
tino Palaiologos was the last Emperor of the East. Under
Frederick the Empire and everything connected with it seems
to crumble and decay while preserving its external splendor.
As soon as its brilliant possessor is gone, it at once falls asun-
der. It is a significant fact that one who in mere genius, in
mere accomplishments, was surely the greatest prince who ever
wore a crown, a prince who held the greatest place on earth,
and who was concerned during a long reign in some of the
greatest transactions of one of the greatest ages, seems never,
even from his own flatterers, to have received that title of
Great which has been so lavishly bestowed on far smaller men.
The world instinctively felt that Frederick, by nature the more
than peer of Alexander, of Constantine, and of Charles, had
left behind him no such creation as they left, and had not
influenced the world as they had influenced it. • He was stupor
mundi et immutator mirabilis^ but the name of Fredericus Mag^
nu8 was kept in store for a prince of quite another age and
house, who, whatever else we say of him, at least showed that
he had learned the art of Themistocles, and know how to change
a small state into a great one.
Many causes combined to produce this singular result, that
a man of the extraordinary genius of Frederick, a man pos-
sessed of every advantage of birth, oflice, and opportunity,
should have had so little direct effect upon the world. It is
not enough to attribute his failure to the many and great faults
of his moral character. Doubtless they were one cause among
others. But a man who influences future ages is not neces-
sarily a good man. No man ever had a more direct influence
on the future history of the world than Lucius Cornelius Sulla.
The man who crushed Rome's last rival, who saved Rome in
lier hist hour of peril, who made her indisputably and for-
ever the head of Italy, did a work greater than the work of
('ii^sjir. Yet the name of Sulla is one at which we almost
instinctively shudder. So the faults and crimes of Frederick,
liis irreligion, his private licentiousness, his barbarous cruelty,
would not of themselves be enough to hinder liim from leaving
his stamp upon his age in the way that other ages have been
marked by the influence of men certainly not worse than he.
Still, to exercise any great and lasting influence on the world,
a man must be, if not virtuous, at least capable of objects and
efforts which have something in common with virtue. Sulla
stuck at no crime which could serve his country or his party.
296 THE EMPEROR FREDERICK TUE SECOND.
but it wiiH for IiIh country and his party, not for purely selfish
(mkIh, tlmt he hibored and that he sinned. Thorough devotion
to any cause has in it something of self-sacrifice, something
whicli, if not purely virtuous, is not without an element akin
to virtue. Very l)ad men have achieved very great works, but
they have commonly achieved them through those features in
their chara(iter which made the nearest approach to goodness.
The weak side in the brilliant career of Frederick is one
which seems to have been partly inherent in his character, and
partly the result of the circumstances in which he found him-
self. Capable of every part, and in fact playing every part by
turns, he had no single definite object, pursued honestly and
steaulfastly throughout his whole life. With all his powers,
with all his brilliancy, his course throughout life seems to have
lH>en in a manner determined for him by others. He was ever
drifting into wars, into scliemes of policy, which seem to be
hardly ever of his own choosing. He was the mightiest and
most (UmgiTous adversary that the Papacy ever had. But he
does not seom to have withstood the Papacy from any personal
choii^e, or lus the voluntary champion of any opposing principle.
He lH»came the eni'my of the Pa[)ac*y, he planned schemes which
involved the utter overthrow of the Papacy, yet he did so sim-
ply because he found that no Pope would ever let him alone.
It was porhai)s an unerring instinct which hindered any Pope
from ever letting him alone. Frederick, left alone to act accord-
ing to his own schemes and inclinations, might very likely have
ilone the Papacy more real mischief than he did when he was
stirivd up to open enmity. Still, as a matter of fact, his quarrels
witli tlie l^opes were not i)f his own seeking ; a sort of inevitable
destiny led him into them, whether he wished for them or not.
Airain, the most reallv successful feature in Frederick's
career, his acquisition of Jerusalem, is not only a mere episode
in his life, but it is something that was absolutely forced upon
him airainst his will. The most successful of erusiulers since
(iiulfrov is the most lUterlv unlike anv other crusader. With
other crusaders the Uolv War was, in some cases, the main
business of their lives: in all cases, it was somethiuij seriouslv
undertaken as a matter either of policy or of religious duty.
Hut the crusade of the man who actiuillv did recover the Holv
City is simply a grotesque episode in his life. Excommunicated
for not going, excounuunicated again for going, excommuni-
cated airain for comiii^jf Kick, tlireatened on everv side, he stUl
THE EMPEROR FREDERICK THE SECOND. 297
went, and he succeeded. What others had failed to win by arms,
he contrived to win by address, and all that came of his success was
that it was made the ground of fresh accusations against him.
For years the cry for the recovery of Jerusalem had been sound-
ing through Christendom ; at last Jerusalem was recovered, and
its recoverer was at once cursed for accomplishing the most
fervent wishes of so many thousands of the faithful.
The excommunicated king, whom no churchman would
crown, whose name was hardly allowed to be uttered in his
own army, kept his dominions in spite of all opposition. He
was hindered from the further consolidation and extension of
his Eastern kingdom only by a storm stirred up in his heredi-
tary states by those who were most bound to show towards him
something more than common international honesty. What-
ever were the feelings and circumstances under which he had
acted, Frederick was in fact the triumphant champion of Chris-
tendom, and his reward was fresh denunciations on the part of
the spiritual chief of Christendom. The elder Frederick, Philip
of France, Richard of England, Saint Lewis, Edward the First,
were crusaders from piety, from policy, or from fashion ; Fred-
erick the Second was a crusader simply because he could not
help being one, and yet he did what they all failed to do.
So again in his dealings with both the German and the Ital-
ian states, it is impossible to set him down either as a consistent
friend or a consistent enemy of the great political movements
of the age. He issues charters of privileges to this or that
commonwealth, he issues charters restraining the freedom of
commonwealths in general, simply as suits the policy of the
time. In his dealings with the Popes, perhaps in his dealings
with the cities also, Frederick was certainly more sinned against
than sinning. But a man whose genius and brilliancy and vigor
shine out in every single action of his life, but in the general
course of his actions no one ruling principle can be discerned,
wlio is as it were tossed to and fro by circumstances and by the
actions of others, is either very unfortunate in the position in which
he finds liimself, or else, with all his genius, he must lack some
of the qualities without which genius is comparatively useless.
In the case of Frederick probably both causes were true.
For a man to influence his age, he must in some sort belong to
his age. He should be above it, before it, but he should not be
foreign to it. He may condemn, he may try to change, the
opinions and feelings of the men around him ; but he must at
298 THE EMPEROR FREDERICK THE SECOND.
least understand and enter into those opinions and feelings.
But Frederick belongs to no age ; intellectually he is above his
own age, above every age ; morally it can hardly be denied
that he was below his age ; but in nothing was he of his age.
In many incidental details his career is a repetition of that
of his grandfather. Like him he struggles against Popes, he
struggles against a league of cities, he wears the Cross in war-
fare against the Infidel. But in character, in aim, in object,
grandfather and grandson are the exact opposite to each other.
Frederick Barbarossa was simply the model of the man, the
German, the Emperor, of the twelfth century. All the faults
and all the virtues of his age, his country, and his position
received in him their fullest development. He was the ordi-
nar}" man of his time, following the objects which an ordi-
nary man of his time and in his position could not fail to
follow. He exhibited the ordinary character of his time in its
very noblest shape ; but it was still only the ordinary character
of his time. His whole career was simply typical of his age,
and in no way personal to himself; every action and every
event of his life could be understood by every contemporary
human being, friend or enemy. But liis grandson, emphatically
stupor mundU commanded the wonder, perhaps the admiration,
of an age which could not understand him. He gathered
indeed around him a small band of devoted adherents ; but to
the mass of Iiis contemporaries he seemed like a being of another
nature. He shared none of the feelings or prejudices of the
time ; alike in his intellectual greatness and in his moral abase*
ment he had nothing in common with the ordinary man of the
thirteenth century. The world probably contained no man,
unless it were some solitary thinker hero and there, whose mind
was so completely set free, alike for good and for evil, from the
ordinary trammels of the time. He appeared in the eyes of his
own age as the enemy of all that it was taught to hold sacred,
the friend of all that it was tauglit to shrink from and wage
war against.
What Frederick's religious views really were is a problem
hard indeed to solve ; but to his own time he appeared as some-
thing far more than a merely political, or even than a doctrinal,
opponent of the Papacy. Men were taught to believe that he
was the enem)' of the head of Christendom simply because he was
the enemy of Christianity altogether. Again, the crimes and
vices of Frederick were no greater than those of countless other
THE EMPEROR FREDERICK THE SECOND. 299
princes ; but there was no prince who trampled in the like sort
upon all the moral notions of his own time. He contrived, by
the circumstances of his vices, to outrage contemporary senti-
ment in a way in which his vices alone would not have outraged
it. A man who thus showed no condescension to the feelings
of his age, whether good or evil, could not directly influence
that age. Some of his ideas and schemes may have been silently
pjissed on to men of later times, in whose hands they were bet-
ter able to bear fruit. He may have shaken old prejudices and
old beliefs in a few minds of his own age ; he may even have
been the fountain of a tradition which was powerfully to affect
distant ages. In many things his ideas, his actions, forestalled
events which were yet far remote. The events which he fore-
stalled he may in tliis indirect and silent way have influenced.
But direct influence on the world of his own age he had none.
He may have undermined a stately edifice which was still to
survive for ages ; but he simply undermined. He left no
traces of himself in the character of a founder; he left as few
in the character of an open and avowed destroyer.
There was also another cause which, besides Frederick's per-
sonal character, may have tended to isolate him from his age
and to hinder him from having that influence over it which we
may say that his genius ought to have had. This was his utter
want of nationality. The conscious idea of nationality had not
indeed the same effect upon men's minds which it has in our
own times. The political ideas and systems of the age ran
counter to the principle of nationality in two ways. Nothing
could be more opposed to any doctrine of nationality than those
ideas whicli were tlie essence of the whole political creed of
the time, the ideas of the Universal Empire and the Universal
Church. On the other hand, the conception of the joint lord-
ship of the world, vested in the successor of Peter and the suc-
cessor of Augustus, was hardly more opposed to the doctrine
of nationality than was the form which was almost everywhere
taken by tlie rising spirit of freedom. A movement towards
national freedom was something exceptional ; in most places it
wjis the independence of a district, of a city, at most of a small
union of districts or cities, for wliich men strove. A German
(^r ItJilian commonwealth struggled for its own local independ-
ence ; 80 far as was consistent with the practical enjoyment of
that independence, it was ready to acknowledge the supremacy
of the Emperor, Lord of the World. Of a strictly national
300
TUE EMPEROE FREDERICK THE SECOND.
patriotism for Germany or Italy men had very little thought
indeed. These two seemingly opposite tendencies, the tendency
to merge nations in one universal dominion, and the tendency
to divide nations into smaU principalities and commonwealths,
were in truth closely connected.
The tendency to division comes out most strongly in the
kingdoms which were united to the Empire. Other countries
showed a power of strictly national action, of acquiring liberties
common to the whole nation, of legislating in the interest of
the whole nation, almost in exact proportion to the degree in
which they were placed l)eyond the reach of Imperial infiuencea.
Spain, Scandinavia, Britain, were the countries on which the
Empire had least influence. Spain, Scandinavia, Britain, were
therefore the countries in which we see the nearest approaches
to true national life and consciousness. Still there is no doubt
that, even within the Empire, national feelings did exercise a
strong, though in a great measure au unconscious, influence.
Local feelings exercised an influence still stronger. But there
was no national or local feeling which could gather round
Frederick the Second. His parentage was half German, half
Norman, Ids birthplace was Italian, the home of his choice waa
Sicilian, hia tastes and habits were strongly suspected of being
Saracenic. The representative of a kingly German house, he
was himself, beyond all doubt, less German than anything
else.
In this position, placed as it were above all ordinary local
and national ties, he was, beyond every other prince who ever
wore the Imperial diadem, the embodiment of the conception
of an Emperor, Lord of the World. But an Emperor, Lord
of the World, is placed too high to win the affections which
attach men to rulers and leaders of lower degree. A king
may command the love of his own kingdom ; a popular leader
may command the love of his own city ; but Cfesar, whose
dominion is from the one sea to the other and from the flood
unto the world's end, must, in this respect as in others, pay the
penalty of his greatness. Frederick was, in idea, beyond all
men, the hero and champion of the Empire. But practically
the championship of the Empire was found less truly effective
in his hands than in the hands of men who were further from
carrying out the theoretical ideal. The Imperial power was
more truly vigorous in the hands of princes in whom the ideal
championship of the Empire was united with the practical lead-
THE DIVER. 301
ership of one of its component nations. Frederick Barbarossa,
the true German king, the man whom the German instinct at
once hails as the noblest development of the German character,
really did more for the greatness of the Empire than his de-
scendant, whose ideal position was far more truly Imperial.
The men who influence their age, the men who leave a lasting
memory behind them, are the men who are thoroughly identified
with the actual or local life of some nation or city. Frederick
Barbarossa was the hero of Germany; but his grandson, the
hero of the Empire, was the hero of none of its component
parts. The memory of the grandfather still lives in the hearts
of a people, some of whom perhaps even now look for his per-
sonal return. The memory of the grandson has everywhere
passed away from popular remembrance; the Wonder of the
World remains to be the wonder of scholars and historians only.
THE DIVER.
A Ballad op Sicily in the Foitrteenth Century.
Bt JOHANN FRIEDRICH von SCHHJJai.
[JoHANN Chbtstoph Friedrich VON ScHiLLBR, the famouB German poet
and dramatist, was bom at Marbach, WUrtemberg, November 10, 17^. He
studied law and medicine at Stuttgart, and was appointed surgeon to a Wttrtem-
berg regiment. Objecting to the restraint imposed upon him by the Duke of
Wiirtemberg in consequence of the production of his first play, ** The Robbers"
(1782), he left the army and went to Mannheim, Leipsic, Dresden, Jena, and
Weimar, where he became the firm friend of Goethe. From 1789 to 1799
Schiller held a professorship at Jena, and during this period published ** The
History of the Thirty Years' War.'» He died at Weimar, May 9, 1806, of an
affection of the lungs. Besides the works already mentioned, Schiller wrote
" The History of the Revolt of the Netherlands'' ; the dramas ** Mary Stuart,"
*♦ Maid of Orleans," ** Bride of Messina," ** William Tell" ; and the trilogy of
*' Wallenstein." Among his lyric pieces are : ** The Ring of Polycrates," **The
Diver," ** The Knight of Toggenburg," and •*The Song of the Bell."]
" Oh, where is the knight or the squire so bold,
As to dive to the howling charybdis below ? —
I east in the whirlpool a goblet of gold,
And o'er it already the dark waters flow ;
Whoever to me may the goblet bring,
Shall have for his guerdon that gift of his king.''
802 THE DIVER.
He spoke, and the cup from the terrible steep.
That, rugged and hoary, hung oyer the verge
Of the endless and measureless world of the deep,
Swirled into the maelstrom that maddened the surge^
"And where is the diver so stout to go —
I ask ye again — to the deep below ? "
And the knights and the squires that gathered around,
Stood silent — and fixed on the ocean their eyes;
Tliey looked on the dismal and savage Profound,
And the peril chilled back every thought of the prize.
And thrice spoke the monarch — "The cup to win,
Is there never a wight who will venture in ? '*
And all as before heard in silence the king —
Till a youth with an aspect unfearing but gentle,
'Mid the tremulous squires — stept out from the ring,
Unbuckling his girdle, and doffing his mantle ;
And the murmuring crowd, as they parted asunder.
On the stately boy cast their looks of wonder.
As he strode to the marge of the summit, and gave
One glance on the gulf of that merciless main,
Lo ! the wave that forever devours the wave,
Casts roaringly up the charybdis again.
And as with the swell of the far thunder boom,
Rushes foamingly forth from the heart of the gloom.
And it bubbles and seethes, and it hisses and roars,
As when fire is with water commixed and contending;
And the spray of its wrath to the welkin upsoars.
And flood upon flood hurries on, never ending ;
And it never ivill rest, nor from travail be free.
Like a sea that is laboring the birth of a sea.
Yet, at lenp:tli, comes a lull o'er the mighty commotion.
As the whirlpool sucks into black smoothness the swell
Of the white-foaming breakers — and cleaves thro' the ocean
A path that seems winding in darkness to hell.
Round and roimd whirled the waves — deeper and deeper still
driven.
Like a gorge thro' the mountainous main thunder-riven !
The youth gave his trust to his Maker ! Before
That path through the riven abyss closed again —
THE DIVER. 303
Hark I a shriek from the crowd rang aloft from the shore,
And, behold ! he is whirled in the grasp of the main I
And o'er him the breakers mysteriously rolled,
And the giant mouth closed on the swimmer so bold.
O'er the surface grim silence lay dark ; but the crowd
Heard the wail from the deep murmur hollow and fell ;
They hearken and shudder, lamenting aloud —
" Gallant youth, — noble heart — fare thee well, fare thee
well I "
More hollow and more wails the deep on the ear —
More dread and more dread grows suspense in its fear.
If thou sliouldst in those waters thy diadem fling.
And cry, " Who may find it shall win it and wear ; "
God wot, though the prize were the crown of a king —
A crown at such hazard were valued too dear.
For never shall lips of the living reveal
What the deeps that howl yonder in terror conceal.
Oh, many a bark, to that breast grappled fast.
Has gone down to the fearful and fathomless grave;
Again, crashed together the keel and the mast.
To be seen, tossed aloft in the glee of the wave. —
Like the growth of a storm ever louder and clearer.
Grows the roar of the gulf rising nearer and nearer.
And it bubbles and seethes, and it hisses and roars.
As when fire is with water commixed and contending ;
And tlie spray of its wrath to the welkin upsoars.
And flood upon flood hurries on, never ending ;
And as with the swell of the far thunder boom,
Rushes roaringly forth from the heart of the gloom.
And, lo I from the heart of that far-floating gloom.
What gleams on the darkness so swanlike and white?
Lo ! an arm and a neck, glancing up from the tomb ! —
They battle — the Man's with the Element's might
It is he — it is he ! in his left hand behold,
As a sign — as a joy ! — shines the goblet of gold I
And he breathed deep, and he breathfed long,
And he greeted the heavenly delight of the day.
They gaze on each other — they shout, as they throng —
**He lives — lo the ocean has rendered its prey I
And safe from the whirlpool and free from the grave.
Comes back to the daylight the soul of the brave!"
804 THE DIVER.
And he comes, with the crowd in their clamor and glee.
And the goblet his daring has won from the water.
He lifts to the king as he sinks on his knee ; —
And the king from her maidens has beckoned his daughter
She pours to the boy the bright wine which they bring.
And thus spake the Diver — ^'Long life to the king I
" Happy they whom the rose hues of daylight rejoice,
The air and the sky that to mortals are given !
May the horror below nevermore find a voice —
Nor Man stretch too far the wide mercy of Heaven I
Nevermore — nevermore may he lift from the sight
The veil which is woven with Terror and Night I
" Quick-brightening like lightning — it tore me along,
Down, down, till the gush of a torrent, at play
In the rocks of its wilderness, caught me — and strong
As the wings of an eagle, it whirled me away.
Vain, vain was my struggle — the circle had won me,
Eound and round in its dance, the wild element spun me.
And I called on my God, and my God heard my prayer
In the strength of my need, in the gasp of my breath —
And showed me a crag that rose up from the lair.
And I clung to it, nimbly — and baffled the death I
And, safe in the perils around me, behold !
On the spikes of the coral the goblet of gold.
" Below, at the foot of that precipice drear.
Spread the gloomy, and purple, and pathless Obscure I
A silence of Horror that slept on the ear.
That the eye more appalled might the Horror endure !
Salamander — snake — dragon — vast reptiles that dwell
In the deep — coiled about the grim jaws of their helL
"Dark-crawled, — glided dark the unspeakable swarms,
Clumped together in masses, misshapen and vast; —
Here clung and here bristled the fashionless forms; —
Here the dark-moving bulk of the Hammer Fish passed;
And with teeth grinning white, and a menacing motion.
Went the terrible Shark — the Hyena of Ocean.
"There I hung, and the awe gathered icily o'er me.
So far from the earth, where man's help there was
none!
THE DIVER. 805
The One Human Thing, with the Goblins before me —
Alone — in a loneness so ghastly — alone !
Fathom deep from man's eye in the speechless profound,
With the death of the Main and the Monsters around.
" Methought, as I gazed through the darkness, that now
It saw — the dread hundred-limbed creature — its prey I
And darted — God ! from the far flaming bough
Of the coral, I swept on the horrible way ;
And it seized me, the wave with its wrath and its roar,
It seized me to save — King, the danger is o'er ! "
On the youth gazed the monarch, and marveled ; quoth he^
" Bold Diver, the goblet I promised is thine ;
And this ring will I give, a fresh guerdon to thee, —
Never jewels more precious shone up from the mine, —
If thou'lt bring me fresh tidings, and venture again,
To say what lies hid in the innermost main.''
Then outspake the daughter in tender emotion :
" Ah ! father, my father, what more can there rest ?
Enough of this sport with the pitiless ocean —
He has served thee as none would, thyself hast confest
If nothing can slake thy wild thirst of desire.
Let thy knights put to shame the exploit of the squire ! "
The king seized the goblet, — he swung it on high.
And whirling, it fell in the roar of the tide :
" But bring back that goblet again to my eye.
And I'll hold thee the dearest that rides by my side ;
And thine arms shall embrace, as thy bride, I decree.
The maiden whose pity now pleadeth for thee."
In his heart, as he listened, there leapt the wild joy —
And the hope and the love through his eyes spoke in fire,
On that bloom, on that blush, gazed delighted the boy ;
The maiden — she faints at the feet of her sire !
Here the guerdon divine, there the danger beneath;
He resolves! To the strife with the life and the death!
They hear the loud surges sweep back in their swell,
Their coming the thunder sound heralds along!
Fond eyes yet are tracking the spot where he fell:
They come, the wild waters, in tumult and throng.
Roaring up to the cliff — roaring back, as before.
But no wave ever brings the lost youth to the shore 1
VOL. ut. — 20
806 THE DIVINE COMEDT.
THE DIVINE COMEDT.
Bt DANTE.
(Cary*8 Translation.)
[DjLKTB Aliohieri, the greatest of Italian poets, and the maker of Italian
as a literary langaage, was bom at Florence, May, 1265. He came of a fiunlly
of magistrates and was a ** White Guelph " ; fought in the battles where the
Ghibellines were defeated ; tilled some public offices at home and abroad ; be-
came one of the six ** pious*' of Florence in 1300, and had the most torbolent
leaders of all the factions banished ; in 1301 was sent on an embassy to F^ype
Boniface VIII., and his enemies the Blacks being victorious in his abeencey wis
sentenced to perpetual banishment and to burning alive if captured. The seOf
tence was twice repeated, and he never saw Florence again. He died in
Ravenna, September 14, 1321. His works are the ** Vita Nuova " ; the ** Divina
Commedia," consisting of the ** Inferno,'* ** Purgatorio," and ** Paradiso,*' one
of the few epoch-making poems of the world, and the actual creator of Italian
as a literary language; the ^^Convito" (Banquet); **De Monarchia" (In
Latin), and some small pieces.]
Scenes fbom the "Inpebno.**
Canto I.
In the midway of this our mortal life,
I found me in a gloomy wood, astray.
Gone from the path direct : and e'en to tell.
It were no easy task, how savage wild
That forest, how robust and rough its growth,
Which to remember only, my dismay
Renews, in bitterness not far from death.
Yet, to discourse of what there good befell.
All else will I relate discovered there.
How first I entered it I scarce can say.
Such sleepy dullness in that instant weighed
My senses down, when the true path I left ;
But when a mountain's foot I reached, where closed
The valley that had pierced my heart with dread,
I looked aloft, and saw his shoulders broad
Already vested with that planet's beam,
Who leads all wanderers safe through every way.
Then was a little respite to the fear,
That in my heart's recesses deep had lain
All of that night, so pitifully passed :
And as a man, with difficult short breath,
THE DIVINE COMEDY. 807
Forespent with toiling^ 'scaped from sea to shore.
Turns to the perilous wide waste, and stands
At gaze ; e'en so my spirit, that yet failed,
Struggling with terror, turned to view the straits
That none hath passed and lived. My weary frame
After short pause recomforted, again
I journeyed on over that lonely steep,
The hinder foot still firmer. Scarce the ascent
Began, when lo ! a panther, nimble, light.
And covered with a speckled skin, appeared ;
Nor, when it saw me, vanished; rather strove
To check my onward going ; that of ttimes.
With purpose to retrace my steps, I turned.
The hour was morning's prime, and on his way
Aloft the sun ascended with those stars,
That with him rose when Love divine first moved
Those its fair works : so that with joyous hope
All things conspired to fill me, the gay skin
Of that swift animal, the matin dawn.
And the sweet season. Soon that joy was chased.
And by new dread succeeded, when in view
A lion came, 'gainst me as it appeared.
With his head held aloft and hunger-mad,
That e'en the air was fear-struck. A she-wolf
Was at his heels, who in her leanness seemed
Full of all wants, and many a land hath made
Disconsolate ere now. She with such fear
O'erwhelmed me, at the sight of her appalled,
That of the height all hope I lost. As one,
Who, with his gain elated, sees the time
When all unwares is gone, he inwardly
Mourns with heart-griping anguish ; such was I,
Haunted by that fell beast, never at peace,
Who coming o'er against me, by degrees
Impelled me where the sun in silence rests.
While to the lower space with backward step
I fell, my ken discerned the form of one
Whose voice seemed faint through long disuse of speech*
When him in that great desert I espied,
" Have mercy on me," cried I out aloud,
" Spirit ! or living man I whate'er thou be.'*
He answered : '^ Now not man, man once I was,
And born of Lombard parents, Mantuans both
By country, when the power of Julius yet
Was scarcely firm. At Bome my life was passed,
t08 THE DIVINE COMEDY.
Beneath the mild Augastus, in the time
Of fabled deities and false. A bard
Was I^ and made Anchises' upright son
The subject of my song, who came from Troy,
YHien the flames preyed on Ilium's haughty towiti.
But thou, say wherefore to such perils past
Betum'st thou ? wherefore not this pleasant mount
Ascendest, cause and source of all delight?''
<^ And art thou then that Virgil, that wellspring
From which such copious floods of eloquence
Have issued ? " I with front abashed replied.
" Glory and light of all the tuneful train I
May it avail me, that I long with zeal
Have sought thy volume, and with love immense
Have conned it o'er. My master thou, and guide I
Thou he from whom alone I have derived
That style, which for its beauty into fame
Exalts me. See the beast, from whom I fled.
O save me from her, thou illustrious sage !
For every vein and pulse throughout my frame
She hath made tremble." He, soon as he saw
That I was weeping, answered: "Thou must needs
Another way pursue, if thou wouldst 'scape
From out that savage wilderness. This beast,
At whom thou criest, her way will suffer none
To pass, and no less hindrance makes than death ;
So bad and so accursed in her kind,
That never sated is her ravenous will.
Still after food more craving than before.
To many an animal in wedlock vile
She fastens, and shall yet to many more,
Until that greyhound come, who shall destroy
Her with sharp pain. He will not life support
By earth nor its base metals, but by love.
Wisdom, and virtue ; and his land shall be
The land 'twixt either Feltro. In his might
Shall safety to Italia's plains arise,
For whose fair realm, Camilla, virgin pure,
Nisus, Euryalus, and Turnus fell.
He, with incessant chase, through every town
Shall worry, imtil he to hell at length
Restore her, thence by envy first let loose.
I, for thy profit pondering, now devise
That thou may'st follow me ; and I, thy guide,
Will lead thee hence through an eternal spaoe^
THE DIVINE COMEDY. 809
Where thou shalt hear despairing shrieks, and see
Spirits of old tormented, who invoke
A seoond death ; and those next view, who dwell
Content in fire, for that they hope to come,
Whene'er the time may be, among the blest.
Into whose regions if thou then desire
To ascend, a spirit worthier than I
Must lead thee, in whose charge, when I depart^
Thou shalt be left : for that Almighty King,
Who reigns above, a rebel to his law
Adjudges me ; and therefore hath decreed
That, to his city, none through me should come.
He in all parts hath sway ; there rules, there holds
His citadel and throne. O happy those.
Whom there he chooses I " I to him in few :
^< Bard I by that GkHl, whom thou didst not adore,
I do beseech thee (that this ill and worse
I may escape) to lead me, where thou said'st,
That I Saint Peter's gate may view, and those
Who, as thou tell'st, are in such dismal plight."
Onward he moved, I close his steps pursued.
Canto V.
From the first circle I descended thus
Down to the second, which, a lesser space
Embracing, so much more of grief contains.
Provoking bitter moans. There Minos stands.
Grinning with ghastly feature : he, of all
Who enter, strict examining the crimes.
Gives sentence, and dismisses them beneath,
According as he f oldeth him around :
For when before him comes the ill-fated soul,
It all confesses ; and that judge severe
Of sins, considering what place in hell
Suits the transgression, with his tail so oft
Himself encircles, as degrees beneath
He dooms it to descend. Before him stand
Always a numerous throng; and in his turn
Each one to judgment passing, speaks, and hears
His fate, thence downward to his dwelling hurled.
" O thou ! who to this residence of woe
Approachest I " when he saw me coming, cried
Minos, relinquishing his dread employ,
" Look how thou enter here; beware in whom
810 THE DIVINE COMEDY.
Thou place thy trust ; let not the entrance broad
Deceive thee to thy harm." To him my guide :
" Wherefore exclaimest ? Hinder not his way
By destiny appointed ; so 'tis willed,
Where will and power are one. Ask thou no more."
Now 'gin the rueful wailings to be heard.
Now am I come where many a plaining voice
Smites on mine ear. Into a place I came
Where light was silent all. Bellowing there groaned
A noise, as of a sea in tempest torn
By warring winds. The stormy blast of hell
With restless fury drives the spirits on,
Whirled round and dashed amain with sore annoy.
When they arrive before the ruinous sweep.
There shrieks are heard, there lamentations, moans.
And blasphemies 'gainst the good Power in heaven.
I understood, that to this torment sad
The carnal sinners are condemned, in whom
Reason by lust is swayed. As in large troops
And multitudinous, when winter reigns.
The starlings on their wings are borne abroad ;
So bears the tyrannous gust those evil souls.
On this side and on that, above, below.
It drives them : hope of rest to solace them
Is none, nor e'en of milder pang. As cranes,
Chanting their dolorous notes, traverse the sky,
Stretched out in long array ; so I beheld
Spirits, who came loud wailing, hurried on
By their dire doom. Then I ; " Instructor ! who
Are these, by the black air so scourged ? " — " The first
'Mong those, of whom thou question'st," he replied,
"O'er many tongues was empress. She in vice
Of luxury was so shameless, that she made
Liking be lawful by promulged decree,
To clear the blame she had herself incurred.
This is Semiramis, of whom 'tis writ.
That she succeeded Ninus her espoused ;
And held the land, which now the Soldan rules.
The next in amorous fury slew herself.
And to Sicheus' ashes broke her faith :
Then follows Cleopatra, lustful queen."
There marked I Helen, for whose sake so long
The time was fraught with evil ; there the great
Achilles, who with love fought to the end.
Paris I saw, and Tristan i and beside.
THE DIVINE COMEDY. 811
A thousand more he showed me, and by name
Pointed them out, whom love bereaved of life.
When I had heard my sage instructor name
Those dames and knights of antique days^ o'erpowered
By pity, well-nigh in amaze my mind
Was lost; and I began: "Bard! willingly
I would address those two together coming,
Which seem so light before the wind." He thus ;
" Note thou, when nearer they to us approach.
Then by that love which carries them along.
Entreat ; and they will come." Soon as the wind
Swayed them towards us, I thus framed my speech :
" wearied spirits ! come, and hold discourse
With us, if by none else restrained." As doves
By fond desire invited, on wide wings
And firm, to their sweet nest returning home.
Cleave the air, wafted by their will along ;
Thus issued, from that troop where Dido ranks.
They, through the ill air speeding : with such force
My cry prevailed, by strong affection urged.
Thb Story op Francesca of Eimiki.
(Byron^s Translation.)
" The land where I was born sits by the seas,
Upon that shore to which the Po descends,
With all his followers, in search of peace.
Love, which the gentle heart soon apprehends.
Seized him for the fair person which was ta'en
From me, and me even yet the mode offends.
Love, who to none beloved to love again
Remits, seized me with wish to please, so strong
That, as thou seest, yet, yet it doth remain.
Love to one death conducted us along.
But Cain4 waits for him our life who ended : "
These were the accents uttered by her tongue. —
Since I first listened to these souls offended,
I bowed my visage, and so kept it till —
" What think'st thou ? " said the bard ; when I unbended|
And recommenced : " Alas, unto such ill
How many sweet thoughts, what strong ecstasies
Led these their evil fortune to fulfill I ^
And then I turned unto their side my eyes,
And said, <' Francesca, thy sad destinies
Have made me Borrow till the tears arise.
812 THE DIVINE COMEDY.
But tell me, in the season of sweet sighs^
By what and how thy love to passion rose^
So as his dim desires to recognize ? "
Then she to me : <^ The greatest of all woes
Is to remind us of our happy days
In misery, and that thy teacher knows.
But if to learn our passion's first root preys
Upon thy spirit with such sympathy,
I will do even as he who weeps and says.
We read one day for pastime, seated nigh,
Of Lancelot, how love enchained him too.
We were alone, quite unsuspiciously.
But oft our eyes met, and our cheeks in hue
All o'er discolored by that reading were j
But one point only wholly us overthrew ;
When we read the long-sighed-for smile of her,
To be thus kissed by such devoted lover.
He who from me can be divided ne'er
Elissed my mouth, trembling in the act all over.
Accursed was the book and he who wrote I
That day no further leaf we did imcover." —
While thus one spirit told us of their lot.
The other wept, so tliat with pity's thralls
I swooned as if by death I had been smote.
And fell down even as a dead body faUs.
Ugolino's Story.
(Gary's Translation.)
We now had left him, passing on our way,
When I beheld two spirits by the ice
Pent in one hollow, that the head of one
Was cowl unto the other ; and, as bread
Is ravened up through hunger, the uppermost
Did so apply his fangs, to the other's brain,
Where the spine joins it. Not more furiously
On Menalippus' temples Tydeus gnawed.
Than on that skull and on its garbage he.
" O thou ! who show'st so beastly sign of hate
'Gainst him thou prey'st on, let me hear," said I,
" The cause, on such condition, that if right
Warrant thy grievance, knowing who ye are.
And what the color of his sinning was,
I may repay thee in the world above.
If that, wherewith I speak, be moist so long.''
Hin jaws uplifting from their fell repast,
That sinner wiped them on the ha.ira o' the head,
Whioh he behind had mangled, then began :
"Thy will obeying, I call up afresh
Sorrow past cure ; which, but to think of, wringB
My heart, or ere I tell on't. But if words,
That I may utter, shall prove seed to bear
Fruit of eternal infamy to him,
The traitor whom 1 gnaw at, thou at ones
Shalt see me speak and weep. ^Vho thou ma^Bt be
I know not, nor how here below art come :
But Florentine tJiou scompst of a truth,
When I do hear thee. Know. 1 was on earth
Count Ugolino, and tlie Archbishop he
Kuggieri. WTiy I neighbor him so close,
Mow list. That through effect of his ill thoughts,
In him my trust reposing, I was ta'en
And after murdered, need is not I tell.
\V1iat therefore thou canst not have heard, that ia,
How cruel was the murder, shalt thou bear,
And know if he have wrougod me. A small grate
Within that mew, whieh for my sake the ii
Of famine bears, where others yet must pine,
Already through its opening several n
Had shown me, when I slept the evil sleep
That from the future tore the curtain off.
This one, methonght, as master of tlie sport,
Bode forth to ohase the gaunt wolf, and his whelps.
Unto the mountain which forbids the sight
Of Lucca to the Pisan. With lean brachs
Inquisitive and keen, before him ranged
Lanfranchi with Sismondi and Oualandi.
After short course the father and the sons
Seemed tired and lagfnug, and methought I saw
The sharp tusks gore their aides. When I awok«,
Before the dawn, amid their sleep I heard
My sons (for they were with me) weep and ask
For bread. Right cruel art thou, if no pang
Thou feel at thinking what my heart foretold ;
And if not now, why use tliy tears to flow?
Now had they wakened; and tlie hour drew near
When they were wont to bring us food ; the mind
Of each misgave him through his dream, and I
Heard, as its outlet underneath looked up
The horrible tower ^ whence, uttering not a word,
814 THE DIVINE COMEDY.
I looked upon the visage of my sons.
I wept not : so all stone I felt within.
They wept : and one, my little Anselm^ cried,
' Thou lookest so ! Father, what ails thee ? ' Yet
I shed no tear, nor answered all that day
Nor the next night, until another sun
Game out upon the world. When a faint beam
Had to our doleful prison made its way,
And in four countenances I descried
The image of my own, on either hand
Through agony I bit ; and they, who thought
I did it through desire of feeding, rose
O' the sudden, and cried, * Father, we should grieve
Far less, if thou wouldst eat of us : thou gavest
These weeds of miserable flesh we wear ;
And do thou strip them off from us again.'
Then, not to make them sadder, I kept down
My spirit in stillness. That day and the next
We all were silent. Ah, obdurate earth !
Why open'dst not upon us ? When we came
To the fourth day, then Gaddo at my feet
Outstretched did fling him, crying, * Hast no help
For me, my father ? ' There he died; and e'en
Plainly as thou seest me, saw I the three
Fall one by one 'twixt the fifth day and sixth :
Whence I betook me, now grown blind, to grope
Over them all, and for three days aloud
Called on them who were dead. Then, fasting got
The mastery of grief.'' Thus having spoke.
Once more upon the wretched skull his teeth
He fastened like a mastiffs 'gainst the bone.
Firm and unyielding. Oh, thou Pisa ! shame
Of all the people, who their dwelling make
In that fair region, where the Italian voice
Is heard ; since that thy neighbors are so slack
To punish, from their deep foundations rise
Capraia and Gorgona, and dam up
The mouth of Arno ; that each soul in thee
May perish in the waters. AVliat if fame
Reported that thy castles were betrayed
By Ugolino, yet no right hadst thou
To stretch his children on the rack. For thenii
Brigata, Uguccione, and the pair
Of gentle ones, of whom my song hath told.
Their tender years, thou modern Thebes, did make
Uncapable of guilt.
THE NEW LIFE. 815
FROM "THE NEW LIFE."
(RoB8etti*8 TraDBlation.)
After this most gracious creature had gone out from
among us, the whole city came to be as it were widowed and
despoiled of all dignity. Then I, left mourning in this deso-
late city, wrote unto the principal persons thereof, in an epistle,
concerning its condition; taking for my commencement those
words of Jeremias : Quomodo sedet sola civitas! etc. And I
make mention of this, that none may marvel wherefore I set
down these words before, in beginning to treat of her death.
Also if any should blame me, in that I do not transcribe that
epistle whereof I have spoken, I will make it mine excuse that
I began this little book with the intent that it should be written
altogether in the vulgar tongue ; wherefore, seeing that the
epistle I speak of is in Latin, it belongeth not to mine under-
taking: more especially as I know that my chief friend, for
whom I write this book, wished also that the whole of it should
be in the vulgar tongue.
When mine eyes had wept for some while, until they were
so weary with weeping that I could no longer through them
give ease to my sorrow, I bethought me that a few mournful
words might stand me instead of tears. And therefore I pro-
posed to make a poem, that weeping I might speak therein of
her for whom so much sorrow had destroyed my spirit ; and
I then began "The eyes that weep."
That this poem may seem to remain the more widowed at its close, I will divide
it before writing it; and this method I will observe henceforward. I say that
this poor little poem has three parts. The first is a prelude. In the second,
I speak of her. In the third, I speak pitifully to the poem. The second
begins here, ** Beatrice is gone up " ; the third here, " Weep, pitiful Song of
mine.** The first divides into three. In the first, I say what moves me to
speak. In the second, I say to whom I mean to speak. In the third, I
say of whom I mean to speak. The second begins here, "And because often,
thinking " ; the third here, " And I will say.** Then, when I say, " Beatrice
is gone up,** I speak of her; and concerning this I have two parts. First,
I tell the cause why she was taken away from us : afterwards, I say how one
weeps her parting; and this part commences here, " Wonderfully.** ITiis
part divides into three. In the first, I say who it is that weeps her not. In
the second, I say who it is that doth weep her. In the third, I speak of my
condition. The second begins here, "But sighing comes, and grief**; the
third, " With sighs.** Then when I say, " Weep, pitiful Song of mine,'* I
speak to this my song, telling it what ladies to go to, and stay with.
816 THE NEW LIFE.
The eyes that weep for pity of the heart
Hare wept so long that their grief languisheth,
And they have no more tears to weep withal :
And now, if I would ease me of a part
Of what little by little leads to death,
It must be done by speech, or not at all.
And because often, thinking, I recall
How it was pleasant, ere she went afar,
To talk of her with you, kind damozels,
I talk with no one else.
But only with such hearts as women's are.
And I will say, — still sobbing as speech failSi
That she hath gone to Heaven suddenly.
And hath left Love below, to mourn witii me.
Beatrice is gone up into high Heaven,
The kingdom where the angels are at peace ;
And lives with them ; and to her friends is dead.
Not by the frost of winter was she driven
Away, like others ; nor by summer heats ;
But through a perfect gentleness, instead.
For from the lamp of her meek lowlihead
Such an exceeding glory went up hence
That it woke wonder in the Eternal Sire,
Until a sweet desire
Entered Him for that lovely excellence.
So that he bade her to Himself aspire :
Counting this weary and most evil place
Unworthy of a thing so full of grace.
Wonderfully out of the beautiful form
Soared her clear spirit, waxing glad the while ;
And is in its first home, there where it is.
Who speaks thereof, and feels not the tears warm
Upon his face, must have become so vile
As to be dead to all sweet sympathies.
Out upon him ! an abject wretch like this
May not imagine anything of her, —
He needs no bitter tears for his relief.
But sighing comes, and grief.
And the desire to find no comforter,
(Save only Death, who makes all sorrow brief,)
To him who for a while turns in his thought
How she hath been among us and is not
THE NEW LIFE. 817
With sighs my bosom always laboreth
In thinking as I do continually,
Of her for whom my heart now breaks apaoe ;
And very often when I think of death,
Such a great inward longing comes to me
That it will change the color of my fac# ;
Andy if the idea settles in its place,
All my limbs shake as with an ague fit ;
Till, starting up in wild bewilderment,
I do become so shent
That I go forth, lest folk misdoubt of it.
Afterward, calling with a sore lament
On Beatrice, I ask, " Canst thou be dead ?"
And calling on her, I am comforted.
Grief with its tears, and anguish with its sighs,
Come to me now whene'er I am alone ;
So that I think the sight of me gives pain.
And what my life hath been, that living dies.
Since for my lady the New Birth's begun,
I have not any language to explain.
And so, dear ladies, though my heart were fain,
I scarce could tell indeed how I am thus.
All joy is with my bitter life at war ;
Yea, I am fallen so far
That all men seem to say, " Go out from us,"
Eyeing my cold white lips, how dead they are.
But she, though I be bowed unto the dust.
Watches me ; and will guerdon me, I trust
Weep, pitiful Song of mine, upon thy way,
To the dames going and the damozels
For whom and for none else
Thy sisters have made music many a day.
Thou, that are very sad and not as they,
Go dwell thou with them as a mourner dwells.
After I had written this poem, I received the visit of a
friend whom I counted as second unto me in the degrees of
friendship, and who, moreover, had been united by the nearest
kindred to that most gracious creature. And when we had a
little spoken together, he began to solicit me that I would write
somewhat in memory of a lady who had died ; and he disguised
his speech, so as to seem to be speaking of another who was but
lately dead : wherefore I, perceiving that his speeoh was of none
818 THE NEW LIFE.
other than that blessed one herself, told him that it should be
done as he required. Then afterwards, having thought thereof,
I imagined to give vent in a sonnet to some part of my hidden
lamentations ; but in such sort that it might seem to be spoken
by this friend of mine, to whom I was to give it. And the
sonnet saith thus : " Stay now with me," etc.
This sonnet has two parts. In the first, I call the Faithful of Love to hear me.
In the second, I relate my miserable condition. The second begins here,
**Mark how they force"
Stay now with me, and listen to my sighSi
Ye piteous hearts, as pity bids ye do.
Mark how they force their way out and press through;
If they be once pent up, the whole life dies.
Seeing that now indeed my weary eyes
Oftener refuse than I can tell to you,
(Even though my endless grief is ever new,)
To weep and let the smothered anguish rise,
Also in sighing ye shall hear me call
On her whose blessed presence doth enrich
The only home that well befitteth her :
And ye shall hear a bitter scorn of all
Sent from the inmost of my spirit in speech
That mourns its joy and its joy's minister.
But when I had written this sonnet, bethinking me who he
was to whom I was to give it, that it might appear to be his
speech, it seemed to me that tliis was but a poor and barren
gift for one of her so near kindred. Wherefore, before giving
him this sonnet, I wrote two stanzas of a poem : the first being
written in very sooth as though it was spoken by him, but the
other being mine own speech, albeit, unto one who should not
look closely, they would botli seem to be said by the same per-
son. Nevertheless, looking closely, one must perceive that it
is not so, inasmuch as one does not call this most gracious crea-
ture his lady^ and the other does, as is manifestly apparent.
And I gave tlie poem and the sonnet unto my friend, saying
that I had made them only for him.
The poem begins, " Whatever while" and has two parts. In the firsts thai is, in
the first stanza, this my dear friend, her kinsman, laments. In the second, I
lament; that is, in the other stanza, which begins, ^^ For ever." And thus
it appears that in this poem two persons lament, of whom one laments as a
brother, the other as a servant.
THE NEW LITE. 819
Whatever while the thought comes over me
That I may not again
Behold that lady whom I mourn for now,
About my heart my mind brings constantly
So much of extreme pain
That I say, Soul of mine, why stayest thou ?
Truly the anguish, soul, that we must bow
Beneath, until we win out of this life.
Gives me full oft a fear that trembleth :
So that I call on Death
Even as on Sleep one calleth after strife,
Saying, Come unto me. Life showeth grim
And bare ; and if one dies, I envy him.
For ever, among all my sighs which bum.
There is a piteous speech
That clamors upon Death continually :
Yea, imto him doth my whole spirit turn
Since first his hand did reach
My lady's life with most foul cruelty.
But from the height of woman's fairness, she.
Going up from us with the joy we had,
Grew perfectly and spiritually fair ;
That so she spreads even there
A light of Love which makes the Angels glad.
And even imto their subtle minds can bring
A certain awe of profound marveling.
On that day which fulfilled the year since my lady had
been made of the citizens of eternal life, remembering me of
her as I sat alone, I betook myself to draw the resemblance of
an angel upon certain tablets. And while I did thus, chanc-
ing to turn my head, I perceived that some were standing
beside me to whom I should have given courteous welcome,
and that they were observing what I did : also I learned after-
wards that they had been there a while before I perceived them.
Perceiving whom, I arose for salutation, and said : " Another
was with me."
Afterwards, when they had left me, I set myself again to
mine occupation, to wit, to the drawing figures of angels : in
doing which, I conceived to write of this matter in rhyme, as
for her anniversary, and to address my rhymes unto those who
had just left me. It was then that I wrote the sonnet which
saith, '^ That lady " : and as this sonnet hath two commence-
ments, it behooveth me to divide it with both of them here.
820 THE NEW LIFE.
/ say that, according to thefintj (his sonnet has three parte. In the firet^ I way
that this lady was then in my memory. In the second^ I tell tohat Loot there'
/ore did with me. In the thirds I speak of the effects of Love. The second
begins here, " Love knowing "; the third here, " Forth went they.*' This pari
divides into two. In the one, 1 say that aU my sighs issued speaking. In
the other, I say how some spoke certain words different from the others. 7*h€
second begins here, *^And still." In this same manner is it divided with thg
other beginning, save that, in the first partj I tell when this lady had thu$
come into my mind, and this I say not in the other.
That lady of all gentle memories
Had lighted on my soul ; — whose new abode
Lies now, as it was well ordained of (jod^
Among the poor in heart, where Mary is.
Love, knowing that dear image to be his,
Woke up within the sick heart sorrow-bowed,
Unto the sighs which are its weary load
Saying, " Go forth." And they went forth, I wis ;
Forth went they from my breast that throbbed and ached;
With such a pang as oftentimes will bathe
Mine eyes with tears when I am left alone.
And still those sighs which drew the heaviest breath
Came whispering thus : " noble intellect !
It is a year to-day that thou art gone.''
Second Commencemekt.
That lady of all gentle memories
Had lighted on my soul ; — for whose sake flowed
The tears of Love ; in whom the power abode
Which led you to observe while I did this.
Love, knowing that dear image to be his, etc.
Then, having sat for some space sorely in thought because
of the time that was now past, I was so filled with dolorous
imaginings that it became outwardly manifest in mine altered
countenance. Whereupon, feeling this, and being in dread
lest any should have seen me, I lifted mine eyes to look ; and
then perceived a young and very beautiful lady, who was gaz-
ing upon me from a window with a gaze full of pity, so that
the very sum of pity appeared gathered together in her. And,
seeing that unhappy persons, when they beget compassion in
others, are then most moved unto weeping, as though they also
felt pity for themselves, it came to pass that mine eyes began
to be inclined unto tears. Wherefore, becoming fearful lest
I should make manifest my abject condition, I rose up, and
SONNETS OF DANTE. 821
went where I could not be seen of that lady ; saying afterwards
within myself : " Certainly with her, also, must abide most
noble Love." And with that, I resolved upon writing a son-
net, wherein, speaking unto her, I should say all that I have
just said. And as this sonnet is very evident, I will not
divide it: —
Mine eyes beheld the blessed pity spring
Into thy countenance immediately
A while agone, when thou beheldst in me
The sickness only hidden grief can bring;
And then I knew thou wast considering
How abject and forlorn my life must be ;
And I became afraid that thou shouldst see
My weeping, and account it a base thing.
Therefore I went out from thee ; feeling how
The tears were straightway loosened at my heart
Beneath thine eyes' compassionate control.
And afterwards I said within my soul :
" Lo ! with this lady dwells the counterpart
Of the same Love who holds me weeping now/'
SONNETS OF DANTE.
Translated bt RICHARD GARNETT.
As LATTERLY upou a Certain way
That liked me ill, in heaviness I rode,
Love to my eyes in middle path was showed,
Habited in a pilgrim^s light array.
His sorry seeming did, methought, betray
That he was of dominion disendowed ;
Pensive with sighs he went, his head down bowed,
Lest passers should his countenance survey.
Then, having sight of me, he called upon
My name, and said, '< I come from distant coast,
Where lately dwelt thy heart by my command j
Which for new love I render from my hand : *'
And he with me so blended and was lost;
I saw not how he suddenly was gone.
VOL. IX. — 21
322 SONNETS OF DANTE.
Love and the gentle heart make but one whole.
As in his lay the sage declareth well ;
Nor more may one without the other dwell
Than without reason reasonable soul.
Nature, when moods of tenderness control,
Makes them, Love Lord, and heart the tabernacle
Where he, pavilioned, sometimes for brief spell
And sometimes for long season sleepeth sole.
Beauty then shed from woman wise and pure
Enchanteth so the eyes, the heart they strike
With longing for the thing they love to scan :
And oftentimes therein this doth endure
Till slumbering Love awakens ; and the like
Worketh in woman excellence of man.
Sweet verses mine, that sing upon the way
Of her whose loveliness makes others fair.
One shall o'ertake you, even if now not there,
Of whom, " This is our brother," ye will say.
But I by Lord of love and lovers pray
Most earnestly that ye will lend no ear,
For not one sentence speaketh he sincere,
Nor rings one note of truth in all his lay.
And if it thus should be, that his discourse
Moves you before your Lady to be found.
Pause not, but hasten as this doth inspire.
And say, " Madonna, we come hither bound.
Pleading his cause who gives his sorrow course.
And grieving saith, AVhere is my eyes' desire ? "
A light so fair and gentle doth imbue
Her eyes, that he to whom this doth appear
Beholdeth what he never may declare
Because it is so lofty and so new.
And the bright rays that shower on me subdue
My heart with trouble so, I quake for fear.
And, " Not again," I say, " return I here ; "
But soon this resolution changeth hue.
And I return where I was overthrown.
Seeking my eyes to comfort and revive
That shrank before the light they found so fair;
Alas ! they droop and shut as I arrive ;
And dead is the desire that urged them on ;
So, Love, I recommend me to thy care.
SONNETS OF DANTE. 828
There came into my mind upon a day
The gentle Lady Love laments on earth.
As ye by impulse that from him had birth
Were drawn my occupation to survey :
And Love, aware of what the mind did sway,
Awakening in the wasted bosom^s dearth.
Was thus my sighs enjoining, " Gro ye forth *' ;
So each one grieving went upon his way.
They all complaining from my bosom stole.
Lifting the voice whereby so oft is stained
The eye with tears disconsolately given :
But they who passage with least ease obtained.
Came forth repeating, " Thou transcendent Soul,
This day last year thy home was made in Heaven."
Pilgrims, who wend along immersed in thought.
Musing, perchance, on distant things unshown.
Come ye from regions so remote and lone.
As should be gathered by your mien distraught ?
Wherefore do ye not weep, whose feet are brought
To innermost of city making moan.
Like men to whom its sorrow is unknown,
Nor of the soreness apprehending aught ?
If ye will tarry till the tale is said,
Certes my heart aflfijrmeth with its sighs
Hence shall ye fare with lamentation deep.
This city^s Beatrice lieth dead ;
Of whom men cannot speak but in such wise,
That whoso harkeneth is fain to weep.
Two ladies on the summit of my mind
Have met together, speech of Love to hold ;
For Courtesy the one and Worth extolled.
Discretion too with Chastity combined :
And to the other Beauty is assigned,
And Grace and Charm are under her enrolled;
And I, as he commands by whom controlled
I live, bow down at feet of both inclined.
Beauty and Virtue Understanding cite
As umpire in their quarrel, whether fit
That heart should for the twain have appetite :
But Love declares, as fountain of all wit ;
Heart may love Beauty for the eyes' delighty
And be by excellence of Virtue smit
824 MINOS FOEMS BT DANTE.
MINOR POEMS BY DANTE.
Dante beseeoheth Death fob Beatrice's Lifs.
(Rossetti*s Translation.)
Death I since I find not one with whom to grieve.
Nor whom this grief of mine may move to tears,
Whereso I be or whitherso I turn, —
Since it is thou who in my soul wilt leave
No single joy, but chilPst it with just fears
And makest it in fruitless hopes to bum, —
Since thou. Death ! and thou only, canst decern
Wealth to my life, or want, at thy free choice, —
It is to thee that I lift up my voice,
Bowing my face that's like a face just dead.
I come to thee, as to One pitying,
In grief for that sweet rest that naught can bring
Again, if thou but once be entered
Into her life whom my heart cherishes
Even as the only portal of its peace.
Death ! how most sweet the peace is that thy grace
Can grant to me, and that I pray thee for.
Thou easily may'st know by a sure sign.
If in mine eyes thou look a little space
And read in them the hidden dread they store, —
If upon all thou look which proves me thine.
Since the fear only maketh me to pine
After this sort, what will mine anguish be
When her eyes close, of dreadful verity.
In whose light is the light of mine own eyes ?
But now I know that thou wouldst have my life
As hers, and joy'st thee in my fruitless strife.
Yet I do think this which I feel implies
That soon, when I would die to flee from pain,
I shall find none by whom I may be slain.
Death I if indeed thou smite this Gentle One,
Whose outward worth but tells tlie intellect
How wondrous is the miracle within.
Thou biddest Virtue rise up and be gone,
Thou dost away with Mercy's best effect.
Thou spoil'st the mansion of God's sojourning;
Yea ! unto naught her beauty thou dost bring
AVhich is above all other beauties, even
MINOR POEMS BY DANTE. 825
In 80 much as befitted One whom Heaven
Sent npon earth in token of its own.
Thou dost break through the perfect trust which hath
Been always her companion in Love's path :
The light once darkened which was hers alone^
Love needs must say to them he ruleth o'er —
" I have lost the noble banner that I bore."
Death! have some pity then for all the ill
Which cannot choose but happen if she die,
And which will be the sorest ever known I
Slacken the string, if so it be thy will,
That the sharp arrow leave it not ! thereby
Sparing her life, which if it flies is flown.
Death I for God's sake be some pity shown I
Restrain within thyself, even at its height,
The cruel wrath which moveth thee to smite
Her in whom Grod hath set so much of grace !
Show now some ruth, if 'tis a thing thou hast I
1 seem to see Heaven's gate, that is shut fast,
Open, and angels filling all the space
About me : come to fetch her soul whose laud
Is sung by saints and angels before God.
Song ! thou must surely see how fine a thread
This is that my last hope is holden by,
And what I should be brought to without her.
Therefore for thy plain speech and lowlihead
Make thou no pause ! but go immediately
(Knowing thyself for my heart's minister)
And, with that very meek and piteous air
Thou hast, stand up before the face of Death,
To wrench away the bar that prisoneth
And win unto tiie place of the good fruit !
And if indeed thou shake by thy soft voice
Death's mortal purpose, — haste thee and rejoice
Our Lady with the issue of thy suit I
So yet awhile our earthly nights and days
Shall keep the blessed spirit that I praise.
826 MINOR POEMS BY DANTE.
Sestika: of the Lady Pibtba degli ScBOYiGzn.
(Rossetti*8 Translation.)
To the dim light and the large circle of shade
I have clomby and to the whitening of the hills.
There where we see no color in the grass.
Nathless my longing loses not its green,
It has so taken root in the hard stone
Which talks and hears as though it were a lady.
Utterly frozen is this youthful lady,
Even as the snow that lies within the shade ;
For she is no more moved than is a stone
By the sweet season which makes warm the hills
Aiid alters them afresh from white to green.
Covering their sides again with flowers and grass.
When on her hair she sets a crown of grass
The thought has no more room for other lady ;
Because she weaves the yellow with the green
So well that Love sits do^vn there in the shade, —
Love who has shut me in among low hills
Faster than between walls of granite-stone.
She is more bright than is a precious stone ;
The wound she gives may not be healed with grass :
I therefore have fled far o'er plains and hills
For refuge from so dangerous a lady ;
But from her sunshine nothing can give shade, —
Not any hill, nor wall, nor summer-green.
A while ago, I saw her dressed in green, —
So fair, she might have wakened in a stone
This love which I do feel even for her shade ;
Ajid therefore, as one woos a graceful lady,
I wooed her in a field that was all grass
Girdled about with very lofty hills.
Yet shall the streams turn back and climb the hills
Before Love's flame in this damp wood and green
Burn, as it bums within a youthful lady.
For my sake, who would sleep away in stone
My life, or feed like beasts upon the grass,
Only to see her garments cast a shade.
MINOR POEMS BY DANTE. 827
How dark soever the hills throw out their shade^
Under her summer-green the beautiful lady
Covers it, like a stone covered in grass.
His Pitiful Song.
(Roflsetti^s Translation.^
The eyes that weep for pity of the heart
Have wept so long that their grief languisheth,
And they have no more tears to weep withal :
And now, if I would ease me of a part
Of what, little by little, leads to death,
It must be done by speech, or not at aU.
And because often, thinking, I recall
How it was pleasant, ere she went afar.
To talk of her with you, kind damozels I
I talk with no one else.
But only with such hearts as women's are.
And I will say, — still sobbing as speech fails, —
That she hath gone to Heaven suddenly,
And hath left Love below to mourn with me.
Beatrice hath gone up into high Heaven,
The kingdom where the angels are at peace.
And lives with them, and to her friends is dead.
Not by the frost of winter was she driven
Away, like others ; nor by summer heats ;
But through a perfect gentleness instead.
For from the lamp of her meek lowlihead
Such an exceeding glory went up hence
That it woke wonder in the Eternal Sire,
Until a sweet desire
Entered him for that lovely excellence, —
So that He bade her to Himself aspire :
Counting this evil and most weary place
Unworthy of a thing so full of grace.
Wonderfully out of the beautiful form
Soared her clear spirit, waxing glad the while ;
And is in its first home, there where it is.
Who speaks thereof, and feels not the tears warm
Upon his face, must have become so vile
As to be dead to all sweet sympathies.
Out upon him ! an abject wretch like this
May not imagine anything of her, —
328 MINOR PO£MS BY DANTE.
He needs no bitter tears for his relief.
But sighing comes, and griefs
And the desire to find no comforter
(Save only Death, who makes all sorrow brief)!
To him who for a while turns in his thought
How she hath been amongst us, and is not
With sighs my bosom always laboreth
In thinking, as I do continually,
Of her for whom my heart now breaks apace ;
And very often, wlien I think of death,
Such a great inward longing comes to me
That it will change the color of my face ;
And, if the idea settles in its place,
All my limbs shake as with an ague fit ;
Till, starting up in wild bewilderment,
I do become so shent
That I go forth, lest folk misdoubt of it.
Afterward, calling with a sore lament
On Beatrice, I ask, — " Canst thou be dead ?"
And calling on her I am comforted.
Grief with its tears, and anguish with its sighs,
Come to me now whene'er I am alone ;
So that I think the sight of me gives pain.
And what my life hath been, that living dies,
Since for my Lady the New Birth's begim,
I have not any language to explain.
And so, dear ladies ! though my heart were fain,
I scarce could tell indeed how I am thus.
All joy is with my bitter life at war ;
Yea ! I am fallen so far
That all men seem to say — " Go out from us I "
Eying my cold white lips, how dead they ara
But She, though I be bowed unto the dust.
Watches me, and will guerdon me, I trust.
Weep, pitiful Song of mine ! upon thy way,
To the dames going and the damozels
For whom, and for none else.
Thy sisters have made music many a day,
Thou ! that art very sad and not as they.
Go dwell thou with them as a mourner dwells!
KUBLAI KHAN. 829
KUBLAI KHAN.
bt bcabco polo.
(Translated by Henry Tale.)
[Marco Polo, 1264-1324. In 1260 two Venetian merchants, Nicolo and
Maffeo Polo, went to the Crimea to trade with that Tartar khanate. The khan
was defeated by another Tartar prince, the western roads were blocked by the
savage victors, the brothers dared not remain, and fled east to Bokhara. After
a couple of years, envoys came thither from Kublai Khan, and knowing the
eagerness of the Mongol Augustus for implanting Western culture among his sub-
jects, invited the Polos to return with them. They could do no better than
accept. Kublai welcomed them, gave them confidential missions in his serv-
ice, and after some years sent them back to ask the Pope for a hundred edu-
cated men to teach Christianity and liberal arts to his people. They arrived in
1260, but could get only two monks to run the risk, and both those lost heart
and turned back early. Nicolo^s son Marco, however, now seventeen, went with
them. Arriving in 1275, the brothers again became important officials, and
Marco rose to high distinction. In 1292 all three were reluctantly given per-
mission to return by the aged Kublai, who died two years later. Reaching
home in 1205, Marco was taken prisoner in a sea fight with the Genoese in 1298,
and imprisoned for a year, during which he dictated an account of his travels
to a fellow-prisoner, who published them.]
KuBLAi's Palace.
And when you have ridden three days from the city last
mentioned, between northeast and north, you come to a city
called Chandu, which was built by the kaan now reigning.
There is at this place a very fine marble palace, the rooms of
which are all gilt and painted with figures of men and beasts
and birds, and with a variety of trees and flowers, all executed
with such exquisite art that you regard them with delight and
astonishment.
Round this palace a wall is built, inclosing a compass of
sixteen miles, and inside the park there are fountains and
rivers and brooks, and beautiful meadows, with all kinds of
wild animals (excluding such as are of ferocious nature), which
the emperor has procured and placed there to supply food for
his gerfalcons and hawks which he keeps there in mew. Of
these there are more than two hundred gerfalcons alone, with-
out reckoning the other hawks. The kaan himself goes every
week to see his birds sitting in mew, and sometimes he rides
through the park with a leopard behind him on his horse's
croup ; and then if he sees any animal that takes his fancy, he
830 EUBLAI KHAN.
slips his leopard at it, and the game when taken is made over
to feed the hawks in mew. This he does for diversion.
Moreover (at a spot in the park where there is a charming
wood) he has another palace built of cane, of which I must
give yon a description. It is gilt all over, and most elaborately
finished inside. It is stayed on gilt and lackered columns, on
each of which is a dragon all gilt, the tail of which is attached
to the column whilst the head, supports the arcliitrave, and the
claws likewise are stretched out right and left to support the
architrave. The roof, like the rest, is formed of canes, covered
with a varnish so strong and excellent that no amount of rain
will rot them. These canes are a good three palms in girth,
and from ten to fifteen paces in length. They are cut acroes
at each knot, and then the pieces are split so as to form from
each two hollow tiles, and with these the house is roofed;
only every such tile of cane has to be nailed down to prevent
the wind from lifting it. In short, the whole palace is built
of these canes, wliich (I may mention) serve also for a great
variety of other useful purposes. The construction of the
palace is so devised that it can be taken down and put up
again \\dth great celerity ; and it can all be taken to pieces
and removed whithersoever the emperor may command. When
erected, it is stayed (against mishaps from the wind) by more
than two hundred cords of silk.
[NoTB by Ck)l. Yale : — It was whilst reading this passage of Bfarco's narrativa in
old Parchas, that Coleridge fell asleep, and dreamt the dream of Kablai's paradlae,
beginning : —
<' In Xanadu did Knbla Khau
A stately pleasure dome decree :
Where Alph, the sacred river, ran,
By caverns measureless to man,
Down to a sunless sea.
So twice five miles of fertile ground
With walls and towers were girdled round :
And there were gardens bright with sinuous rills,
Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree ;
And here were forests, ancient as the hills,
Enfolding sunny spots of greenery."]
KuBLAi's Paper Currency.
Now that I have told you in detail of the splendor of this
city of the emperor's, I shall proceed to tell you of the mint
which he hatli in the same city, in which he hath his money
coined and struck, as I shall relate to you. And in doing so
I shall make manifest to you how it is tliat the Great Lord
KUBLAI KHAN. 881
may well be able to accomplish even much more than I have
told you, or am going to tell you, in this book. For, tell it
how I might, you never would be satisfied that I was keeping
within truth and reason I
The emperor's mint then is in this same city of Cambaluc,
and the way it is wrought is such that you might say he hath
the secret of alchemy in perfection, and you would be right 1
For he makes money after this fashion:
He makes them take of the bark of a certain tree, in fact of
the mulberry tree, the leaves of which are the food of the silk-
worms, — these trees being so numerous that whole districts
are full of them. What they take is a certain fine white bast or
skin which lies between the wood of the tree and the thick
outer bark, and this they make into something resembling sheets
of paper but black. When these sheets have been prepared they
are cut up into pieces of different sizes. [The denominations
ranged from the lowest small change to very high figures.]
All these pieces of paper are issued with as much solemnity and
authority as if they were of pure gold or silver ; and on every
piece a variety of officials, whose duty it is, have to write their
names and to put their seals. And when all is prepared duly,
the chief officer deputed by the kaan smears the seal intrusted
to him with vermilion, and impresses it on the paper, so that
the form of the seal remains stamped upon it in red ; the money
is then authentic. Any one forging it would be punished with
death. And the kaan causes every year to be made such a
quantity of this money, which costs him nothing, that it must
equal in amount all the treasure in the world.
With these pieces of paper, made as I have described, he
causes all payments on his own account to be made ; and he
makes them to pass current universally over all his kingdoms
and provinces and territories, and whithersoever his power and
sovereignty extends. And nobody, however important he may
tliink himself, dares to refuse them on pain of death. And
indeed everybody takes them readily, for wheresoever a person
may go throughout the Great Kaan's dominions he shall find
these pieces of paper current, and shall be able to transact
all sales and purchases of goods by means of them just as if
they were coins of pure gold. And all the while they are so
light that ten bezants' worth does not weigh one golden bezant.
Furthermore all merchants arriving from India or other
countries, and bringing with them gold or silver or gems and
882 KUBLAI KHAN.
pearls, are prohibited from selling to any one but the emperor.
He has twelve experts chosen for this business, men of shrewd-
ness and experience in such affairs ; these appraise the articles,
and the emperor then pays a liberal price for them in those
pieces of paper. The merchants accept his price readily, for in
the first place they would not get so good an one from anybody
else, and secondly they are paid without any delay. And widi
this paper money they can buy what they like anywhere over
the empire, wliilst it is also vastly lighter to carry about on
their journeys. And it is a truth that the merchants will
several times in the year bring wares to the amount of 400,000
bezants, and the Grand Sire pays for all that in that paper.
So he buys such a quantity of those precious things every year
that his treasure is endless, whilst all the time the money he
pays away costs him nothing at all.^ Moreover, several times
in the year proclamation is made through the city that any
one who may have gold or silver or gems or pearls, by taking
them to the mint shall get a handsome price for them. And
the owners are glad to do this, because they would find no other
purchaser give so large a price. Thus the quantity they bring
in is marvelous, though those who do not choose to do so may
let it alone. Still, in this way, nearly all the valuables in the
country come into the kaan's possession.
When any of those pieces of paper are spoilt, — not that
they are so very flimsy neither, — the owner carries them to
the mint, and by paying three per cent, on the value he gets
new pieces in exchange. And if any baron, or any one else
soever, hath need of gold or silver or gems or pearls in order
to make plate, or girdles, or the like, he goes to the mint and
buys as much as he list, paying in this paper money.
Now you have heard the ways and means whereby the Great
Eaan may have, and in fact has, more treasure than all the
kings in the world ; and you know all about it and the rea-
son why.
KuBLAi's Administration.
Concerning the Twelve Barons who are set over all the Affairs qf
the Great Kaan,
You must know that the Great Kaan hath chosen twelve
great barons to whom he hath committed all the necessary
^ Maico apparently considen this simply fiat money ; but the next paragraph
ihowB that it was redeemable at any time, and kept afloat by its oonTentonoa,
KUBLAI KHAN. 888
affairs of thirty-four great provinces ; and now I will tell you
particulars about them and their establishments.
You must know tliat these twelve barons reside all together
in a very rich and handsome palace, which is inside the city of
Cambaluc, and consists of a variety of edifices, with many suites
of apartments. To every province is assigned a judge and sev-
eral clerks, and all reside in this palace, where each has his
separate quarters. These judges and clerks administer all the
affairs of the provinces to which they are attached, under the
direction of the twelve barons. Howbeit, when an affair is
of very great importance, the twelve barons lay it before the
emperor, and he decides as he thinks best. But the power of
those twelve barons is so great that they choose the governors
for all the thirty-four great provinces that I have mentioned,
and only after they have chosen do they inform the emperor
of their choice. This he confirms, and grants to the person
nominated a tablet of gold such as is appropriate to the rank
of his government.
Those twelve barons also have such authority that they can
dispose of the movements of the forces, and send them whither,
and in such strength as, they please. This is done indeed with
the emperor's cognizance, but still the orders are issued on
their authority. They are styled Shieng, which is as much as
to say " The Supreme Court," and the palace where they abide is
also called Shieng. This body forms the highest authority at
the Court of the Great Kaan ; and indeed they can favor and
advance whom they will. I will not now name the thirty-four
provinces to you, because they will be spoken of in detail in
course of this book.
ffoto the Kaan'i Posti and Runners are $ped through Many ljand$
and Pravincei,
Now you must know that from this city of Cambaluc pro-
ceed many roads and highways leading to a variety of prov-
inces, one to one province, another to another ; and each road
receives the name of the provmce to which it leads ; and it is
a very sensible thing. iVnd the messengers of the emperor in
traveling from Cambaluc, be the road whichsoever they will,
find at every twenty-five miles of the journey a station which
80 that prices could not haye been inflated by it Knblai wis eridently a soand
economist
884
KUBLAl KHAN.
ihey call a Yamb, or as we should say, the " Horse Post House."
And at each of those stations used by the messengers there is a
large and handsome building for them to put up at, in which
they find all the rooms furnished with fine beds, and all other
necessary articles in rich silk, and where they are provided with
everything they can want. If even a king were to arrive at one
of these, he would find himself well lodged.
At some of these stations, moreover, there shall be posted
Bome four hundred horses standing ready for the use of the
messengers ; and at others there shall be two hundred, accord-
ing to the requirements, and to what the emperor liaa estab-
lished in each case. At every twenty-five miles, as I said, or
anyhow at every thirty miles, you find one of these stations, on
all the principal highways leading to the different provincial
goveruments ; and the same is the case throughout all the chief
provinces subject to the Great Kaan. Even when the mes-
sengers have to pass tbrougli a roadless tract where neither
house nor hotel exists, still there the station houses have been
established just the same, excepting that the intervals are
somewhat greater, and the day's journey is fixed at thirty-five
to forty-five miles, instead of twenty-five to thirty. But they
are provided with horses and all the other necessaries just like
those we have described, so that the emperor's messengers,
come from what region they may, find everything ready for
them.
And in sooth this is a thing done on the greatest scale of
magnificence that ever was seen. Never liad emperor, king, or
lord such wealth as this manifests I For it is a fact that on all
these poste taken together there are more than three hundred
thousand horses kept up, specially for the use of the messengers.
And the great buildings that I have mentioned are more than
ten thousand in number, all richly furnished as 1 told you. The
thing is on a scale so wonderful and costly that it is hard to
bring oneself to describe it.
But now I tell you another thing that 1 had forgotten, but
which ought to be told whilst 1 am on this subject. You must
know that by the Great Kaan's orders there has been estab-
lished between those post houses, at every interval of three
miles, a little fort with some forty houses round about it, in
which dwell the people who act as the emperor's foot runners.
Every one of these runners wears a great wide belt, set all over
with bells, so that as they run the three miles from post to post
KUBLAI KHAN. 886
these are heard jingling a long way off. And thus on reaching
a post the runner finds another man similarly equipt, and aU
ready to take his place, who instantly takes oyer whatsoeyer
he luis in charge, and with it reoeiyes a slip of paper from the
clerk who ia always at hand for the purpose ; and so the new
man sets off and runs his three miles. At the next station he
finds his relief ready in like manner ; and so the post proceeds,
with a change at eyery three miles. And in this way the
emperor, who has an immense number of these runners,
reoeiyes dispatches with news from places ten days' journey
off in one day and night; or, if need be, news from a hun-
dred days off in ten days and nights; and that is no small
matter I In fact in the fruit season many a time fruit shall be
gathered one morning in Cambaluc, and the eyening of the next
day it shall reach the Great Kaan at Chandu, a distance of ten
days' journey. The clerk at each of the posts notes the time
of each carrier's arriyal and departure; and there are often
other officers whose business it is to make monthly yisitations
of all the posts, and to punish those runners who haye been
slack at their work. The emperor exempts these men from
all tribute, and pays them besides.
Moreover there are also at those stations other men equipt
similarly with girdles hung with bells, who are employed for
expresses when there is a call for great haste in sending
dispatches to any goyemor of a proyince, or to giye news
when any baron has reyolted, or in other such emergencies;
and these men travel a good two hundred or two hundred and
fifty miles in the day, and as much in the night. Ill tell you
how it stands. They take a horse from those at the station
which are standing ready saddled, all fresh and in wind, and
mount and go full speed, as hard as they can ride, in &ct.
And when those at the next post hear the bells they get ready
another horse and man equipt in the same way, and he takes
oyer the letter or whatever it be, and is off full speed to the
third station, where again a fresh horse is found all ready ; and
so the dispatch speeds along from post to post, always at full
gallop with regular change of horses. And the speed at which
they go is marvelous. By night, however, they cannot go so
fast as by day, because they have to be accompanied by foot-
men with torches, who could not keep up with them at fall
speed*
Those men are highly prized ; and they oould never do it
886 KUBLAI KHAN.
did they not bind hard the stomach, chest, and head with strong
bands. And each of them carries with him a gerfalcon tabletp
in sign that he is bound on an urgent express ; so that if, per-
chance, his horse break down, or he meet with other mishspy
whomsoever he may fall in with on the road, he is empowered
to make him dismount and give up his horse. Nobody dares
refuse in such a case ; so that the courier hath always a good
fresh nag to carry him.
Now, all these numbers of good post horses cost the emperor
nothing at all; and I will tell you the how and the why.
Every city, or village, or hamlet, that stands near one of thoee
post stations, has a fixed demand made on it for as many horses
as it can supply, and these it must furnish to the post. And in
this way are provided all the posts of the cities as well as the
towns and villages round about them; only in uninhabited
tracts the horses are furnished at the expense of the emperor
himself.
Nor do the cities maintain the full number, say of four
hundred horses, always at their station, but month by month
two hundred shall be kept at the station, and the other two
hundred at grass, coming in their turn to relieve the first two
hundred. And if there chance to be some river or lake to be
passed by the runners and post horses, the neighboring cities
are bound to keep three or four boats in constant readiness for
the purpose.
And now I will tell you of the great bounty exercised by
the emperor towards his people twice a year.
How the Emperor bestows Help upon his People^ when they are
afflicted vnth Dearth or Murrain.
Now you must know that the emperor sends his messengers
all over his lands and kingdoms and provinces, to ascertain
from his officers if the people are afflicted by any dearth
through unfavorable seasons or storms or locusts or other like
calamity ; and from those who have suffered in this way no
taxes are exacted for that year ; nay, more, he causes them to
be supplied with corn of his own for food and seed. Now this
is, undoubtedly, a great bounty on his part. And when the
winter comes, he causes inquiry to be made as to those who
have lost their cattle, whether by murrain or other mishap, and
such persons not only go scot free, but get presents of cattle.
KUBLAI KHAN. 837
And thus, as I tell you, the lord every year helps and fosters
the people subject to him. .
There is another trait of the Great Kaan I should tell you ;
and that is, if a chance shot from his bow strike any herd or
flock, whether belonging to one person or to many, and how-
ever big the flock may be, he takes no tithe thereof for three
years. In like manner, if the arrow strike a boat full of goods,
that boat load pays no duty ; for it is thought imlucky that an
arrow strike any one's property ; and the Great Kaan says it
would be an abomination before God, were such property, that
has been struck by the divine wrath, to enter into his treasury.
How the Great Kaan cattses Trees to be planted by the Highways.
The emperor, moreover, hath taken order that all the high-
ways traveled by his messengers and the people generally,
should be planted with rows of great trees a few paces apart ;
and thus the trees are visible a long way off, and no one can
miss the way by day or night. Even the roads through unin-
habited tracts are thus planted, and it is the greatest possible
solace to travelers. And this is done on all the ways where it
can be of service. The Great Kaan plants these trees all the
more readily, because his great astrologers and diviners tell him
that he who plants trees lives long.
But where the ground is so sandy and desert that trees will
not grow, he causes other landmarks, pillars or stones, to be set
up to show the way.
Concerning the Black Stones that are dug in Cathay^ and are
burnt for Fuel.
It is a fact that all over the country of Cathay there is a
kind of black stone existing in beds in the mountains, which
they dig out and burn like firewood. If you supply the fire
with them at night, and see that they are well kindled, you
will find them still alight in the morning ; and they make such
capital fuel that no other is used throughout the country. It
is true that they have plenty of wood also, but they do not
burn it, because these stones bum better and cost less.
Moreover, with that vast number of people and the number
of hot baths that they maintain — for every one has such a bath
at least tliree times a week, and in the winter if possible every
TOL. IX. — 22
888 KUBLAI KHAN.
day, whilst eyery nobleman and man of wealth has a private
bath for his own use — the wood would not suffice for the
purpose.
Hato the Cheat Kaan causes Stores of Com to he made^ to help hi»
People withal in the time of Dearth.
You must know that when the emperor sees that com is
cheap and abundant, he buys up large quantities, and has it
stored in all his provinces, in great granaries, where it is so
well looked after that it will keep for three or four years.
And this applies, let me tell you, to all kinds of com,
whether wheat, millet, rice, panic, or what not, and when there
is a scarcity of a particular kind of com he causes that to be
issued. And if the price of it is at one bezant the measure, he
lets them have it at one bezant for four measures, or at what-
ever price will produce general cheapness ; and every one can
have food in this way. And by this providence of the em-
peror's, his people can never suffer from dearth. He does the
same over his whole empire, causing these supplies to be stored
everywhere according to calculation of the wants and necessities
of the people.
Of the Charity of the Emperor to the Poor.
I have told you how the Great Kaan provides for the dis-
tribution of necessaries to his people in time of dearth, by
making store in time of cheapness. Now I will tell you of his
alms and great charity to the poor of his city of Cambaluc.
You see, he causes selection to be made of a number of
families in the city which are in a state of indigence, and of
such families some may consist of six in the house, some of
eight, some of ten, more or fewer in each as it may hap, but the
whole number being very great. And each family he causes
annually to be supplied with wheat and other corn sufficient
for the whole year. And this he never fails to do every year.
Moreover, all those who choose to go to the daily almose at the
court receive a great loaf apiece hot from baking, and nobody
is denied, for so the lord hath ordered, and so some thirty
thousand people go for it every day from year's end to year's
end. Now this is a great goodness in the emperor to take pity
of his poor people thus I And they benefit so much by it that
they worship him as he were God.
KUBLAI KHAN. 839
He also provides the poor with clothes. For he lays a tithe
upon all wool, silk, hemp, and the like, from which clothing can
be made ; and he has these woven and laid up in a building set
apart for the purpose ; and as all artisans are bound to give a
day's labor weekly, in this way the kaan has these stuffs made
into clothing for those poor families, suitable for summer or
winter, according to the time of the year. He also provides
the clothing for his troops, and has woolens woven for them in
every city, the material for which is furnished by the tithe
aforesaid. You should know that the Tartars, before they were
converted to the religion of the Idolaters, never practiced alms-
giving. Indeed, when any poor man begged of them, they
would tell him, " Go with God's curse, for if He loved you as
He loves me. He would have provided for you 1 " But the
sages of the Idolaters, and especially the Bacsis mentioned
before, told the Great Kaan that it was a good work to provide
for the poor, and that his idols would be greatly pleased if he
did also. And since then he has taken to do so much as you
have heard.
How the Great Kaan maintains a Chiard of Twelve Thousand
Horse^ which are called Keshican.
You must know that the Great Kaan, to maintain his state,
hath a guard of twelve thousand horsemen, who are styled
Keshican, wliich is as much as to say, "Knights devoted to
their Lord." Not that he keeps these for fear of any man
whatever, but merely because of his own exalted dignity.
These twelve thousand men have four captains, each of whom
is in command of three thousand; and each body of three
thousand takes a turn of three days and nights to guard the
palace, where they also take their meals. After the expiration
of three days and nights they are relieved by another three
thousand, who mount guard for the same space of time, and
then another body takes its turn, so that there are always three
thousand on guard. Thus it goes until the whole twelve
thousand, who are styled (as I said) Keshican, have been on
duty ; and then the tour begins again, and so runs on from
year's end to year's end.
THE WRITINGS OF ALFONSO THE WISE.
,t the Creation, 1 could bave
a unfonunale and perhaps
a SEmcbo in 1282 ; tbe letter
THE WRITINGS OF ALFONSO THE WISE.
(From the " Siete Fartidas" ; tranfilaled for this work.)
[Alfonso tiie Wise, King of Caalile 1262-82, was one of tlie great literary
and inwliectual influences of the thirteenth century. The pure, graceful, and
simple language of his famouH code of laws, the " Siete Partldas" or Seveii
Paru,and of his "Gran Conquista d'Ultrdmar" (Great Conqueat beyond Sea),
founded the SpaQiah Uteraij language, just as Dante did literaiy Italian ; nhile
be fixed Castilian securely as the national idiom by having the Bible tt&nelaied
into It. His " Alfonsine Tables " of astronomy were of great scientific usefulness ;
he is reported as saying, " Had I been present a ' "
given the Deity some valuable advice." Ue was
not very capable ruler, and was dethroned by his at
here given is bis appeal tor help in Ihis strait.]
Kings and their SuDJECxa. I
Part II, Title I, Law V.
V1CAE8 of God are the kings, each one in hie kingdom,
placed over the people to maintain them in justice and in truth
as much as in temporal things, just as with the emperor in his
empire. And this shows itseU completely in two manners:
the first of them is npiritual, according to what the prophets
and the saints have Bhown, to whom our Lord has given grace
to know these things assuredly and to understand how to do
them ; the other is according to nature, as the wise men have
shown who were learned judges of things in the natural order ;
and the saints have said that the king is lord, put on the earth
in place of God to accomplish justice and give to every one his
right, and thence they have called him the heart and soul of the
people ; for even as the soul lies in the heart of man, and by it
the body lives and maintains itself, so in the king lies justice,
which is the life and maintenance of tbe people of his lordship.
And on the other hand, as the heart is one, and from it all the
other members receive unity, so that they be one body, even so
all those in the kingdom, in spite of being many, because the
king is and ought to be one, for that reason they ought all on
the other hand to be one with him, to serve and aid him in the
things which he has to do. And in the natural order the wise
have said that the king is the head of the kingdom ; for just as
from the head are born the senses by which all the members of
the body order themselves, even so by the mandates which are
bom from the kiug, who is lord and head of all those in the
kingdom, should they order and guide themselves, and advise
THE WRITINGS OF ALFONSO THE WISE. 841
with him in order to obey him, and shelter and gnard and
rectify the kingdom of which he is the head, and they the
members.
IMe m^ Law I. What kind of a thing thought i$y and why it
is 80 named.
Thought {_pensamiento'\ is the care with which men consider
things past, and those present, and those which are to be ; and
it is so called because with it man weighs [j^e^a] the things for
which care comes into his mind.
Law II. Whence thought is homy and how it ought to he wrought.
Thought is born in the mind of man, and it should be wrought
not with anger, nor with great melancholy, nor with much
cupidity, nor vehemently ; but with reason, and about things
from which honor comes, or by which one can guard himself
from harm. And in order that this may be done better, the
wise have said that it should be the king's business to guard
his mind in three manners : the first, that he should not direct
it toward cupidity, nor toward great care for excessive and
useless honors ; the second, that he should not too much covet
great riches ; the third, that he should not love to be very
vicious. And of every one of these three manners there is
plentiful enough demonstration further on in the laws of this
title, as the wise men of old have distinguished it.
Law m. That the king ought not to covet in his mind too great
honors.
Excessive and useless honors the king ought not to covet in
his mind, rather he ought greatly to ward them off ; because
that which is too great cannot last, and being lost or impaired
turns to dishonor ; and the honor which is of that class always
becomes a danger to him who follows it, breeding thence troubles
and great costs, and without reason impairing what he has for
what he covets. And further than this, the wise have said that
it is no less a virtue for a man to guard what he has than to
gain what he has not ; and that is because guarding comes from
judgment, and gaining from fortune. And thence the king who
guards his honor in such wise that every day he grows in R and
does not lessen, and knows how to guard what he has in such
manner that he does not lose it for what he desires to gain, he
842 THE WRITINGS OF ALFONSO THE WISR
is held as one of good judgment, and one who loyes his people
and is sage in raising them to good ; and him who has done tius
God will guard in this world that he may not receive dishonor
from men, and in the other that he may not be dishonored with
the wicked in hell.
(From Ticknor*s *' History of Spanish Literature.*')
What meaneth a Tyrant^ and how he u%eth his power in a kinff"
dom when he hath obtained it.
A tyrant doth signify a cruel lord, who by force, or by
craft, or by treachery, hath obtained power over any realm
or country ; and such men be of such nature, that, when once
they have grown strong in the land, they love rather to work
their own profit, though it be in harm of the land, than the
common profit of all, for they always live in an ill fear of los-
ing it. And that they may be able to fulfill this their pur-
pose unencumbered, the wise of old have said that they use
their power against the people in three manners. The first is,
that they strive that those under their mastery be ever igno-
rant and timorous, because, when they be such, they may not
be bold to rise against them nor to resist their wills ; and the
second is, that they be not kindly and united among them-
selves, in such wise that they trust not one another, for, while
they live in disagreement, they shall not dare to make any
discourse against their lord, for fear faith and secrecy should
not be kept among themselves ; and the tliird way is, that they
strive to make them poor, and to put them upon great under-
takings, which they can never finish, whereby they may have
so much harm, that it may never come into their hearts to
devise an)i;hing against their ruler. And above all this, have
tyrants ever striven to make spoil of the strong and to destroy
the wise ; and have forbidden fellowship and assemblies of men
in their land, and striven always to know what men said or
did ; and do trust their counsel and the guard of their person
rather to foreigners, who will serve at their will, than to them
of the land, who serve from oppression. And, moreover, we
say, that, though any man may have gained mastery of a king-
dom by any of the lawful means whereof we have spoken in
the laws going before this, yet, if he use his power ill, in the
ways whereof we speak in this law, him may the people still
call tyrant; for he turneth his mastery which was rightful
THE WRITINGS OF ALFONSO THE WISE. 848
into wrongful, as Aristotle hath said in the book which treateth
of the rule and government of kingdoms.
The King's Daughters.
They are to endeavor, as much as may be, that the king's
daughters be moderate and seemly in eating and in drinking,
and also in their carriage and dress, and of good manners in all
things, and especially that they be not given to anger ; for,
besides the wickedness that lieth in it, it is the thing in the
world that most easily leadeth women to do ill. And they
ought to teach them to be handy in performing those works
that belong to noble ladies; for this is a matter that becometh
them much, since they obtain by it cheerfulness and a quiet
spirit ; and besides, it taketh away bad thoughts, which it is
not convenient they should have.
Welcome to May.
(Translation of Mary Ward.)
Welcome, O May, yet once again we greet thee I
So always praise we her, the Holy Mother,
Who prays to God that he shall aid us ever
Against our foes, and to us ever listen.
Welcome, May, loyally art thou welcome I
So always praise we her, the Mother of Kindness,
Mother who ever on us taketh pity.
Mother who guardeth us from woes unnumbered.
Welcome, O May ! welcome, O month well-favored I
So let us ever pray and offer praises
To her who ceases not for us, for sinners.
To pray to God that we from woes be guarded.
Welcome, May, joyous May and stainless I
So will we ever pray to her who gaineth
Grace from her Sou for us, and gives each morning
Force that by us the Moors from Spain be driven.
Welcome, May, of bread and wine the giver 1
Pray then to her, for in her arms, an infant.
She bore the Lord ! She points us on our journey,
The journey that to her will bear us quickly !
844 THE WRITINGS OF ALFONSO THE WISE.
Letter Beseeching Aid.
(From Ticknor^s *< History of Spanish Literature.'*)
^^ Cousin Don Alonzo Perez de Guzman : My affliction is
great, because it has fallen from such a height that it will be
seen afar ; and as it hiis fallen on me, who was the friend of
all the world, so in all the world will men know this my mis-
fortune, and its sharpness, which I suffer unjustly from my
son, assisted by my friends and by my prelates, who, instead
of setting peace between us, have put mischief, not under
secret pretenses or covertly, but with bold openness. And
thus I find no protection in mine own land, neither defender
nor champion ; and yet have I not deserved it at their hands,
unless it were for the good I have done them. And now,
since in mine own land they deceive, who should have served
and assisted me, needful is it that I should seek abroad those
who will kindly care for me; and since they of Castile
have been false to me, none can think it ill that I ask help
among those of Benamarin. For if my sons are mine enemies,
it will not then be wrong that I take mine enemies to be my
sons ; enemies according to the law, but not of free choice.
And such is the good king Aben Jusaf ; for I love and value
him much, and he will not despise me or fail me ; for we are
at truce. I know also how much you are his, and how much
he loves you, and with good cause, and how much he will do
through your good counsel. Therefore look not at the things
past, but at the things present. Consider of what lineage you
are come, and that at some time hereafter I may do you good,
and if I do not, that your own good deed shall be its own
good reward. Therefore, my cousin, Alonzo Perez de Guz-
man, do so much for me with my lord and your friend, that,
on pledge of the most precious crown that I have, and the
jewels thereof, he should lend me so much as he may hold to
be just. And if you can obtain his aid, let it not be hindered
of coming quickly; but rather think how the good friendship
that may come to me from your lord will be through your
hands. And so may God's friendship be with you. Done in
Seville, my only loyal city, in the thirtieth year of my reign,
and in the first of these my troubles.
"Signed, The King."
THE NON-EXISTENCE OF MAGIC. 845
THE NON-EXISTENCE OF MAGIC.
Bt ROGER BACON.
(Translated for thiB work.)
[RooEB Bacow, the greatest natural philosopher of the Middle Ages, was
bom in Somersetshire, England, about 1214. Educated at Oxford and Paris, by
a luckless impulse he joined the Franciscan (mendicant) Order, for which he
had no vocation, and which conflicted violently with his real one. His mind was
singularly like that of his great namesake, Francis Bacon ; he believed in obser-
vation and experiment as the basis of deduction, and never ceased urging the
study of original sources and texts, as the basis of any sound theological knowl-
edge. This theory, counsel, and practice convinced his superiors that he was
heretically minded and dangerous, and they imprisoned him for some years.
About 1265, Pope Clement IV., hearing of his scientific attainments, asked him
to write out and send a summary of what he knew ; in an incredibly short time,
though denied pens and paper except by specif permission, penniless, and
obliged to get materials and skilled help, he wrote and sent his vast '* Opus
Majus,*' a summary of all known science and filled with original experiments
and acute deductions. He wrote also the ** Opus Minus," ** Opus Tertium," and
minor pieces. In 1278 his writings were condemned by his Order as heretical,
and he was again confined. He died in 1294. His mediseval repute as a
magician was an ironical fate forgone whose chief work was to combat such
delusions.]
To William of Paris :
I. Op and against Fabricated Appearances, and of
AND AGAINST INVOCATION OF SPIRITS.
I RESPOND heartily to your request, for though nature may
be potent and wonderful, yet art using nature as an instrument
is more potent than natural gifts, as we see in many things.
But whatever is beyond the operation of nature or of art, either
is not human or is fabricated and filled with frauds. For there
are those who, fabricating appearances by swift motion of the
organs, or diversity of voices, or ingenuity of apparatus, or
darkness, or by collusion, put many marvels before mortals
which have no truth of existence. The world is full of these,
as is manifest to the inquirer. For jugglers play many tricks
by quickness of hand ; and " mediums," fabricating a variety
of voices in the stomach and throat and mouth, form human
voices far and near, as they choose, as if a spirit spoke through
the man ; and they shape sounds as of brutes. But pipes laid
under the grass, and hidden in recesses of the ground, show us
that the voice is human, not of spirits, which is fabricated with
846 THE NON-EXISTENCE OF MAGia
such huge mendacity. And when inanimate things are moved
swiftly in the dusk, of morning or evening, that is not reality,
but fraud and trick. As to collusion, it fabricates everything
men wish, according as they arrange with each other.
Into all these, however, neither philosophic consideration
investigates, nor art, nor the power of nature pauses to look.
But beside these is a more mischievous occupation, when men,
against the laws of philosophy and against all reason, invoke
nefarious spirits, through whom to achieve their will. And
their mistake is in this, that they believe spirits to be subject
to them, and coercible by human power ; for this is impossible,
because human force is far inferior to that of spirits. And on
this point men err still more in this, that they believe by the
use of some natural means they can summon spirits or put them
to flight. And the error lias been made up to this time, when
men strive by invocations and supplications and sacrifices to
placate them and bring them into the service of the summoners ;
while it would be much easier without such trial of skill to
supplicate God or the good spirits for whatever man ought to
repute useful ; — since not even in useless matters do maHgn
spirits appear favorable, except so far as sinful deeds are per-
mitted through men by God, who rules and guides the human
race. And so these methods are beyond the examples set by
wisdom ; on the contrary, they rather operate the other way,
nor do the truly philosophic ever concern themselves in the
manners following.
II. Op Magic Characters, Charms, and their Uses.
What should be held concerning charms, and characters,
and other things of the kind, I consider after this fashion. It
is far from doubtful that everything of the kind is at the pres*
ent time false and uncertain ; for whatever things are univer-
sally beyond reasoning out, which philosophers have come upon
in the works of nature or art, they have hidden as secrets from
the unworthy.
Thus, if it were universally unknown that a magnet draws
iron, and some one wished to perform this feat in public, he
would draw characters and utter charms, lest it might be per^
ceived that the whole work of attraction was natural. All
such performances must be erroneous. Thus, therefore, so
many things are hidden in the words of philosophers in many
THE NON-EXISTENCE OF MAGIC. 847
ways, that a wise man ought to have the prudence to neglect
charms and characters, and investigate the works of nature and
art ; and thus he should perceive that things, as well animate
as inanimate, harmonize with each other according to the con-
formities of nature, not according to the virtue of characters or
a charm. And thus, many secrets of nature and art are esti-
mated as magic by the unlearned ; and the magicians foolishly
confide in characters and charms, to which they ascribe virtue ;
and by following them, forsake the works of nature or art for
the error of charms and characters. And so this race of men
is deprived of the utilities of wisdom, impelled by its folly.
There are certain supplications of antiquity, instituted by
righteous men, or still higher, ordained by God and the angels ;
and these can thus retain their primal virtue. So in many
regions, to this day, certain utterances are made over burning
iron and over the waters of a stream, and other like matters,
by which the innocent are absolved or the guilty condemned in
the case ; and these are made by the authority of the Church
and of prelates. For even the priests themselves make exor-
cisms with blessed water, as is written in the old law of purga-
tion by water, by which a woman is proved an adulteress or
faithful to her husband; and there are many of the sort. But
the things contained in the magicians' books are all forbidden
by law, however much truth they may contain ; because they
are so much abused by rogues that it is not possible to dis-
tinguish between the true and the false. Hence, whatever they
say as to Solomon or other wise men having composed this or
that, is to be denied; because books of this sort are not received
by the authority of the Church, nor by the wise, but by mis-
leaders who deceive the world. Furthermore, they compose
new books themselves, and multiply new inventions, as we
know by experience ; and then, that they may entice men the
more forcibly, they prefix famous titles to their books, and im-
pudently ascribe them to great authors ; and that they may leave
no contingency unprovided for, they devise a high-sounding
style, and fabricate lies under the pretense of their text.
As to characters, they are either words arranged in inscribed
figures, containing the sense of a manufactured utterance, or
they are made to represent the appearance of the stars at chosen
times. Of characters, therefore, our first judgment must be
according to what is said of the utterances. Of the second
sort, if they are not made at the chosen times, we know they
848 THE NON-EXISTENCE OF MAGIC.
have no inner efficacy ; and so, he who makes them as they aie
formed in the books, regarding nothing except the figure alone
which he represents according to his pattern, is judged by the
wise as having done nothing. They who know how to perform
their work under the constellations due at a given phase of the
sky, are able to arrange not merely characters, but all works
either of art or nature, according to the virtue of the sky. But
because it is difficult to know the skies with surety, so there is
much terror in them to many, and there are few who know how
to classify anything usefully and truthfully. And therefore
the mob of mathematicians judging and operating by the great
stars do not accomplish much, or do anything useful; the
learned, however, and those having sufficient skill, can do many
useful things, as much by judgment as by working at chosen
periods.
It is to be taken into consideration that a skilled physician^
and whoever else has to arouse the spirit, can usefully (accord-
ing to the physician Constantine) employ charms and characters
even if feigned ; not because the characters and charms them-
selves accomplish anything, but that the medicine may be
received more trustingly and eagerly, and the spirit of the
patient stimulated, and he may more abundantly confide and
hope and enjoy ; because the stimulated spirit can renovate
many things in the body it informs, so that it may convalesce
from infirmity to health, out of enjoyment and confidence. If
therefore, the physician, for the magnifying of his work, that
the patient may be excited to hope and confidence of health,
does something of this kind, not for fraud nor for his own
advantage (if we believe the physician Constantine), it is not
to be reprobated. For he, in his epistle concerning articles
suspended from the neck, thus allows charms and characters
for the neck, and defends them in such cases. For the mind
has much power over the body, through its strong emotions, as
Avicenna teaches in the fourth book On the Mind and the eighth
On Animals ; and all wise men agree. And thus sports are
made in presence of the sick, and agreeable things are brought
to them. On the other hand, many things are sometimes con-
ceded to the appetite ; because the passions conquer, and the
desire of life over death.
THE NON-£XIST£NC£ OF MAGIC. 349
rV. On Wonderful Abtifioial Instbumbnts.
I will first tell of the wonderful works of art and nature,
that I may afterwards assign the causes and manner of them,
in which there is nothing magical, that it may be seen that all
magic power is inferior to these works, and worthless. And
first for the quality and reason of art alone. For instruments
of navigation can be made without men as rowers, so that the
largest ships, river and ocean, may be borne on, with the guid-
ance of one man, with greater speed than if full of men. Also
carriages can be made so that without an animal they may be
moved with incalculable speed ; as we may assume the scythed
chariots to have been, with which battles were fought in ancient
times. Also instruments for flying can be made, so that a man
may sit in the middle of the instrument, revolving some contriv-
ance by which wings artificially constructed may beat the air,
in the manner of a bird flying. Also an instrument small in
size for the elevation and depression of weights almost infinitely,
than which nothing more useful could chance ; for by an instru-
ment three fingers high, and the same breadth, and a less vol-
ume, a man can snatch himself and his friends from all danger
of prison, both to elevate and descend. An instrument can
also be easily made by which one man can forcibly draw a thou-
sand to him, despite their will ; and so of drawing other things.
Instruments can also be made for walking in the sea or rivers,
down to the bottom, without bodily peril. For Alexander the
Great used these that he might view the secrets of the ocean,
according to what Ethicus the astronomer narrates. These
things were done in ancient times, and are done in our own, as is
certain, unless it may be the instrument for flying, which I have
not seen, nor do I know any man who has seen ; but I know
that the wise man who planned this device completed it. And
such things can be made almost infinitely, as bridges across
rivers without pillars or any other support, and machines, and
unheard-of devices.
V. Of Experiments in Artificial Sight.
But more philosophical forms have been invented. For
thus transparent glasses may be fashioned, so that one may
appear many, and one man an army, and as many suns and
moons as we please may be made to appear. For thus nature
860 THE NON-EXISTENCE OF MAGia
sometimes forms vapors, so that two suns and two moons, and
even three at once, appear in the air, as Pliny relates in the
second book of his natural history. For which reason many and
an infinite number may appear in the air ; because after a thing
has exceeded its unity, no number is limited for it, as Aristotle
argues in the chapter De Vacuo. And thus in every city, and»
on the other hand, in every army, there can be terrors infinite ;
so that either through the multiplication of stellar apparitions,
or of men collected against them, they may almost despair,
especially if the following instance should be taken with the
first.
For glasses can be so constructed that things placed very
far off may appear very near, and vice versa; so that from an
incredible distance we may read the minutest letters, and num-
ber things however little, and make the stars appear where we
will. For thus it is believed that Julius Caesar, on the shore of
the sea in Gaul, discovered through huge glasses the disposition
and sites of the castles and towns of Great Britain.
Bodies may also be so constructed that the greatest may
appear the least, and vice versa ; and the high may appear low
and lowest, and vice versa; and hidden tilings may appear in
sight. For thus Soci'ates discovered that the dragon, poison-
ing the city and district with his pestilential breath, lived in
coverts among the mountains; thus also, on the other hand,
everything in cities or armies could be discovered by their
enemies. Bodies could also be so constructed that poisonous
beings and influences and infections could be led off whenever
men wished ; for thus it is said that Aristotle taught Alexander ;
in which instance the poison of a basilisk, erected on the wall
of a city against his army, was turned against the city itself.
Glasses could also be so constructed that every man could see
gold, and silver, and whatever a man wished ; and whoever
should hasten to the place of the vision should find nothing.
It behooves us, therefore, not to use magic illusions when the
power of philosophy teaches us to perform quite enough.
But there is a sublimer power of construction, by which rays
may be drawn and collected through various shapes and reflec-
tions to any distance we wish, so far that any object may be
burned ; for burning glasses acting forward and backward attest
this, as certain authors teach in their books. And the greatest
of all constructions and of things constructed is, that the skies
may be depicted according to their longitudes and latitudes,
^
THE NON-EXISTENCE OF MAGIC. 861
in corporal figure, as they are moved in their daily motion ; and
these things are worth a kingdom to the wise man. These, then,
suffice for examples of constructions, however infinite a num-
ber of others may be put forward meantime.
VIII. Op Concealing the Secrets of Nature and Art.
Having enumerated certain examples concerning the power
of nature and art, that from a few things we may comprehend
many, from its parts the whole, and from particulars universals,
so far that we may see it is not necessary for us to aspire after
magic, when art and nature suffice ; I wish now to follow items
through their class, and their causes, and to give their method
in particular. But I judge that the secrets of nature are not
transmitted through the skins of goats and sheep, that they may
be understood by any one who chooses, just as Socrates and
Aristotle wish. And Aristotle himself says, in his book of
Secrets, that he should be the breaker of the heavens' seal if
he communicated the secrets of nature and art ; adding how
many evils follow him who reveals secrets. Further on this
point A. Gellius says, in the book of the Attic Nights, on
the Feast of the Wise, that it is foolish to offer lettuces to an
ass when a thistle is enough for him. And in the book of
Stones it is written, that he lessens the majesty of things who
divulges mystic ones ; nor do secrets remain of which the
crowd is partaker. By a commendable division the populace
may be divided in opposition to the wise. For what is seen by
all is true, and likewise what is seen by the wise, and most of
all by the noted. Therefore what is seen by the many — that
is, the populace — as far as of this sort, ought to be held false ;
— I speak of the populace, wliich is distinguished as against
the wise in this commendable division. For in the common
conceptions of the mind it agrees with the wise ; but in the
special principles and conclusions of the arts and sciences it
disagrees with the wise, laboring about appearances, in sophisms
and worthless matters which the wise do not care for. In
special or secret things, therefore, the populace errs ; and
thus it is divided against the wise ; but in the common con-
ceptions of the mind it is restrained under universal law, and
agrees with the wise. But the cause of this secrecy toward the
populace on the part of the wise was, because the populace
derides the wise, and pays no heed to the secrets of wisdom^
852 THE NON-EXISTENCE OF MAGIC.
and does not know enough to use the worthiest things; and if
by chance anything grand falls under its notice, it destroys it,
and abuses it to the multiplex harm of persons and the com-
munity. And so it is insane that anything secret should be
written down unless it be concealed from the populace, and
with difficulty understood by the most studious and the wise.
So has run all the multitude of the wise from the beginning,
and it has hidden in many ways the secrets of wisdom from the
populace. For some have hidden many things by characters
and charms, others by enigmatic and figuratiye words, as Aris-
totle in the book of Secrets saying to Alexander : " O Alex-
ander, I wish to show you the greatest secret of secrets, and the
divine power shall aid you to conceal the mystery, and to exe-
cute the design. Take, therefore, the stone which is not a
stone, and it is in what man you will, and what place you will,
and what time you will ; and it is called the philosopher's egg,
and the terminus of the egg." And thus innumerable things
are found in many books and various sciences, obscured by such
speeches, so that they cannot in any way be understood without
a teacher.
XI. How TO Make the Philosophee's Egg (or Stoke)
AND Gunpowder.
Six hundred and thirty years of the Arabs being finished
[i.e.y 1152 A.D.], I respond to your petition in this manner. . . .
Let there be taken of the bones of Ada, and of lime, the same
weight ; and let there be six at the stone of Tagus, and five at
the stone of union; and let them be rubbed up at the same
time with water of life, whose property it is to dissolve all
other things, so that they may be dissolved in it and cooked
together. And let this rubbing and cooking be repeated until
they are incerated ; that is, that the parts may be united as in
wax. And the sign of inceration is, that the medicine liquefies
over intensely glowing iron. Then let it be placed in the same
water in a hot and damp place, or suspended in the steam of
very hot water ; then let them be dissolved and hardened in
the sun. Then you are to take saltpeter, and pour quicksilver
upon lead, and again wash and cleanse the lead with it so that
it may be very near to silver, and then operate as before. Also
let the whole weight be thirty. But yet of saltpeter LUBU
w
THE FAMOUS HISTORIE OF FRYER BACON. 868
VOPO VIR CAN UTRIET ^ of sulphur ; and thus you may
make thunder and lightning, if you know the method of con-
struction. You can see, nevertheless, whether I speak enig-
matically or truthfully. And some may have judged otherwise.
For it has been said to me that you ought to resolve everything
into a primal material, on which you have two deliverances
from Aristotle in his popularized and famous book ; on account
of which I am silent. And when you have possessed yourself
of that, then you will have pure elements, simple and equal ;
and you may do this by contrary means and various operations,
which I have before called the Keys of Art. And Aristotle
says that equality of powers excludes action, and passion, and
corruption. And Averroes says this in reprobation of Galen.
And that is rated simpler in medicine, and purer, which can be
procured ; and this is worth more against fevers, and affections
of the mind and body.
Fabevtell.
And whoever shall have opened these things will have the
key which opens them, ahd no one may shut it ; and when he
shall have shut it no one may open it.
THE FAMOUS HISTORIE OF FRYER BACON.
(Old Engliflh Romance.)
Of the Parents and Birth of Fryer Bacon^ and how he
addicted himse^fe to Learning.
In most men's opinions he was borne in the west part of
England and was sonne to a wealthy farmer, who put him to
schoole to tlie parson of the towne where hee was borne : not
with intent that he should turn fryer (as he did), but to get
so much understanding, that he might manage the better that
wealth hee was to leave him. But young Bacon tooke his learn-
ing so fast, tliat the priest could not teach him any more, which
made him desire his master that he would speake to his father
1 A suggested reading is **luia nope com nbre,'* an anagram of **pulaere
c&rbonum/* powder of charcoal.
VOL. IX. — 23
854 THE FAMOUS HISTORIE OF FRTER BACON.
to put him to Oxford, that he might not lose that little learning
that hee had gained : his master was yery willing so to doe :
and one day meeting his father, told him, that he had received
a great blessing of God, in that he had given him so wise and
hopefull a child, as his sonne Roger Bacon was (for so was he
named), and wished him withall to doe his duty, and to bring
up so his child, that hee might shew his thankfulnesse to
God, which could not better be done then in making of him a
scholler ; for he found by his sodaine taking of his learning,
that hee was a child likely to prove a very great clerke : hereat
old Bacon was not well pleased (for he desired to bring him
up to the plough and to the cart, as hee himselfe was brought),
yet he for reverence sake to the priest, shewed not his anger,
but kindly thanked him for his paines and counsell, yet desired
him not to speake any more concerning that matter ; for hee
knew best what best pleased liimselfe, and that he would doe :
so broke they off their talke, and parted.
So soone as the old man came home, he called to his sonne
for his bookes, which when he had, he lock'd them up, and gave
the boy a cart whip in the place of them, saying to him : Boy,
I will have you no priest, you shall not be better learned than
I, you can tell now by the almanack when it is best sowing
wheat, when barly, pease, and beaue : and when the best lib-
bing is, when to sell graine and cattell I will teach thee ; for
I have all faires and markets as perfit in my memory, as Sir
John our priest has masse without booke : take mee this whip,
I will teach thee the use of it, it will be more profitable to thee
then this harsh Latin : make no reply, but follow my counsell,
or else by the masse thou slialt feele the smart hand of my
anger. Young Bacon thought this but hard dealing, yet would
he not reply, but within sixe or eight dayes he gave his father
the slip, and went to a cloyster some twenty miles off, where he
was entertained, and so continued his learning, and in small
time came to be so famous, that he was sent for to the Uni-
versity of Oxford, where he long time studied, and grew so
excellent in the studies of art and nature, that not England
onely, but all Christendome admired him.
How Fryer Bacon deceived his 3Ia)u that would faxt for Ait
conscience sake.
Fryer Bacon had one onely man to attend on him and he too
was none of the wisest, for he kept him in charity, more then
THE FAMOUS HISTORIE OF FRYER BACON. 355
for any service he had of him. This man of his (named Miles)
never could indure to fast as other religious persons did, for
alwayes hee had in one corner, or another, flesh which hee
would eate when his maister eat bread only, or else did fast and
abstaine from all things. Fryer Bacon seeing this, thought at
one time or other to be even with him, which he did one Fryday
in this manner. Miles on the Thursday night had provided a
great blacke-pudding for his Frydayes fast : this pudding put
he in his pocket (thinking belike to heate it so, for his maister
had no fire on those dayes) on the next day, who was so demure
as Miles, hee looked as though hee would not have eat any
thing : when his maister offerd him some bread, hee refused it,
saying his sinnes deserved a greater penance then one dayes
fast in a whole weeke : his maister commended him for it, and
bid him take heed that he did not dissemble : for if he did, it
would at last be knowne ; then were I worse than a Turke said
Miles : so went he forth as if he would have gone to pray pri-
vately, but it was for notliing but to prey upon his blacke
pudding ; that pulled he out (for it was halfe roasted with the
heate) and fell to it lustily ; but he was deceived, for having
put one end in his mouth, he could neither get it out againe nor
bite it off, so that hee stamped out for helpe : his maister hear-
ing him, came ; and finding him in that manner, tooke hold of
the other end of the pudding, and led him to the hall, and
shewed him to all the schollers, saying : see here my good
friends and fellow students what a devout man my servant
Miles is, he loveth not to break a fast day, witnesse this pudding
that his conscience will not let him swallow : I will have him
to he an example for you all, then tyed hee him to a \vindow by
the end of the pudding, where poore Miles stood like a beare
tyecl by the nose to a stake, and indured many floutes and
mockes : at night his maister released him from his penance ;
Miles was glad of it, and did vow never to breake more fast
dayes whilst that he lived.
How Fryer Bacon by his art took a towne^ when the King had
lyen before it three months^ without doing to it any hurt.
In those times when Fryer Bacon did all his strange trickes,
the Kings of England had a great part of France, which they
held a long time, till civill warres at home in this land made
them to lose it : it did chance that the Kihg of England (for
some cause best knowne to himselfe) went into France wiUi a
35ti
THE FAMOUS HI8TORIE OF FBYEll BACON.
great armie, where after many victories, he did beseige a strong
towne and lay before it full three moneths, witliont doing to
the towne any great damage, but rather received the hurt him-
selfe. This did so vexe the King, that he sought to take it
in any way, either by policy or strength : to this intent hee
made proclamation that whosoever could deliver this towne
into his hand, hee should have for his paines ten thousand
crownes truely paid. This was proclaimed, but there was none
found that would undertake it. At length the newes did come
into England of this great reward that was promised. Fryer
Bacon hearing of it, went into France, and being admitted to the
kings presence, hee thus spake unto him : Your maiestie I am
sure hath not quite forgot your poore subject Bacon, the love
that you shewed to mee being last in your presence, hath drawn
mee for to leave my countrey, and my studies, to doe your maies-
ties service : I beseech your grace, to conimand mee so farre as my
poore art or life may doe you pleasure. The king thanked him
for his love, but told him, that hee had now more need of annea
than art, and wanted brave sonldiers more than learned schoUers.
Fryer Bacon answered. Your grace saith well ; but let me (under
correction) tell you, that art oftentimes doth those things that
are impossible to armes, which I will make good in some few
examples.
[He tells him much as in SS ^ ^^^ ^ of the preceding article.]
The king all this while heard him with admiration: but hear-
ing him now, that hee would undertake to win the towne, hee
burst out in these speeches : most learned Bacon, doe but what
thou hast said, and I will give thee what thou moat desirest,
either wealth, or honour, choose which thou wilt, and I will be
as ready to performe, as 1 have been to promise.
Your maiesties love is all that I seeke (said the fryer) let mee
have that, and I have honour enougli, for wealth, I have content,
the wise should seek no more : but to the purpose. Let your I
pioniers raise up a mount so high, (or rather higher) than t~
wall, and then shall you see some probability of that which 1
have promised.
This mount in two days was raised : then Fryer Bacon weatfl
with the king to the top of it, and did with a perspect shew to J
him the towne, as plainly as if hee had beene in it : at this iham
king did wonder, but Fryer Bacon told hira, that he shotil "
wonder more, ere next day noone : against which time, h^
THE FAMOUS mSTORIE OF FRYER BACON. 357
desired him to have his whole army in readinesse, for to scale
the wall upon a signal given by him, from the mount. This
the king promised to doe, and so returned to his tent full of
joy, that he should gain this strong towne. In the morning
Fryer Bacon went up to the mount and set his glasses, and
other instruments up : in the meane time the king ordered his
army, and stood in a readinesse for to give the assaults : when
the signal was given, which was the waving of a flagge : ere nine
of the clocke Fryer Bacon had burnt the state-house of the
towne, with other houses only by his mathematicall glasses,
which made the whole towne in an uprore, for none did know how
it came : whilest that they were quenching of the same Fryer
Bacon did wave his flagge : upon which signall given, the king
set upon the towne, and tooke it with little or no resistance.
How Fryer Bacon over-came the German coniurer Vandermast,
and made a spirit of his otvne carry him into Germany,
The king of England after hee had taken the town shewed
great mercy to the inhabitants, giving some of them their lives
freely, and others he set at liberty for their gold : the towne
hee kept as his owne, and swore the chiefe citizens to be his
true subiects. Presently after the king of France sent an
ambassadour to the king of England for to entreat a peace
betweene them. This ambassadour being come to the king, he
feasted him (as it is the manner of princes to doe) and with the
best sports as he had then, welcomed him. The ambassadour
seeing the king of England so free in his love, desired likewise
to give him some taste of his good liking, and to that intent sent
for one of his fellowes (being a Germane, and named Vander-
mast) a famous coniuror, who being come, hee told the king, that
since his grace had been so bountiful in his love to him, he
would shew him (by a servant of his) such wonderfull things
that his grace had never scene the like before. The king
demanded of him of what nature those things were that hee
would doe : the ambassador answered that they were things
done by the art of magicke. The king hearing of this, sent
straight for Fryer Bacon, who presently came, and brought
Fryer Bungey with him.
When the banquet was done, Vandermast did aske the king,
if he desired to see the spirit of any man deceased : and if that
hee did, hee would raise him in such manner and fashion as he
868 THE FAMOUS mSTORIE OF FRY£R BACON.
was in when that he lived. The king told him, that above all
men he desired to see Pompey the Great, who could abide no
equall. Vandermast by his art raised him, armed in such man-
ner as hee was when he was slaine at the battell of Pharsalia ;
at this they were all highly contented. Fryer Bacon presently
raised the ghost of lulius Cecsar, who could abide no superiour,
and had slaine this Pompey at the battell of Pharsalia : at the
sight of him they were all amazed, but the king who sent for
Bacon : and Vandermast said that there was some man of art
in that presence, whom he desired to see. Fryer Bacon then
shewed himselfe, saying ; it was I Vandermast, that raised
Caesar, partly to give content to this royall presence, but
chiefely for to conquer thy Pompey, as he did once before, at
that great battell of Pharsalia, which he now againe shall doe.
Then presently began a fight between Caesar and Pompey,
which continued a good space, to the content of all, except
Vandermast. At last Pompey was overcome and slaine by
Caesar : then vanished they both away.
My lord ambassadour (said the king) me thinks that my
Englishman has put down your German: hath he no better
cunning than this? Yes, answered Vandermast, your grace
shall see me put downe your Englishman ere that you goe from
hence ; and therefore Fryer prepare thy self e with thy best of
art to withstand me. Alas, said Fryer Bacon, it is a little thing
will serve to resist thee in this kind. I have here one that is
my inferior (shewing him Fryer Bungey) try thy art with him ;
and if thou doe put him to the worst, then will I deale with thee,
and not till then.
Fryer Bungey then began to shew his art : and after some
turning and looking in his booke, he brought up among them
the Hesperian Tree, which did beare golden apples : these apples
were kept by a waking dragon, that lay under the tree : He hav-
ing done this, bid Vandermast finde one tliat durst gather the
fruit. Then Vandermast did raise the ghost of Hercules in his
habit that he wore when that he was living, and with his club
on his shoulder : Here is one, said Vandermast, that shall gather
fruit from this tree : this is Hercules, that in his life time gath-
ered of this fruit, and made the dragon crouch : and now againe
shall hee gather it in spight of all opposition. As Hercules was
going to plucke the fruit. Fryer Bacon held up his wand, at which
Hercules stayed and seemed fearful. Vandermast bid him for
to gather of the fruit, or else he would torment him. Hercules
THE FAMOUS HISTORIE OF FRYER BACON. 359
was more foarfuU, and said, 1 caimot, nor I dare not : for great
Bacon stands, whose charms are farre more poworfull than thine,
I must obey him Vaiidermast. Hereat Vanderraaat curat Her-
cules, and tlireatned him ; But Fryer Bacon knghed, and bid
not to chafe himself ere that his journey was ended ; for seeing
(said he) that Hercules will doe nothing at your command, I
will have him doe you some service at mine : with that he bid
Hercules carry him home into Gennany. The Devill obeyed
him, and tooke Vandermast on his backe, and went away with
him in all their sighta. Hold Fryer, cried the ambaaaadour, I
will not lose VandermaHt for half my land. Content yourself
my lord, answered I-'ryor Bacon, 1 have but sent him home to
see his wife, and ere long ho may rfturno. The king of Eng-
land thanked Fryer Bacon, and forced some gifts on him for his
service that he hud donu for him : for Fryer Bacon did so Uttle
respect money, tliat he never would take any of the king.
MiLEs'8 Song after the Weddino.
And did you lieare of a, mirth that befell,
the morrow after a wedding day :
At carrying a brido at homo to dwell,
and away to Twiver, away, away !
The Quintin was set, and the (glands were made,
'tis a pity old custonie should ever decay:
And woe b« to him tfiat was horst on a iado,
for he carried no credit away, away.
We met a consort of fiddle-de-dees,
we set them a cock-horse, and made them to play
The winning of Uullen, and Upsie-frees,
and away to Twivcr, away, away.
There was ne'er a lad in all the parish,
that would goe to tlie plow that day:
But on his fore-horse his wench he carries,
and away to Twiver, away, away.
The butler was quicke, and the ale he did t&f,
the maidens did make tne chamber full gayi
The serving-men gave me a fuddling cap,
and I did carye it away, away.
860 THE FAMOUS HISTORIE OF FRYER BACON.
The smithe of the towne his liquor so tooke,
that he was perswaded the ground look'd blue.
And I dare boldly to sweare on a booke,
such smiths as he there are but a few.
A posset was made, and the women did sip,
and simpering said they could eate no more :
Full many a maid was laid on the lip ;
He say no more, but so give o're.
Haw two young Gentlemen that came to Fryer Bacon^ to know haw
their fatJiers did^ killed one another ; and how Fryer Bacon
for grief e^ did breake his rare Glasse^ wherein he could Bee any
thing that was done within fifty miles about him.
It is spoken of before now, that Fryer Bacon had a glasse,
which was of that excellent nature, that any man might behold
any thing that he desired to see within the compasse of fifty
miles round about him : with this glasse he had pleasured divers
kinds of people : for fathers did oftentimes desire to see (thereby)
how their children did, and children how their parents did ; one
friend how another did ; and one enemy (sometimes) how his
enemy did : so that from far they would come to see this won-
derfuU glasse. It happened one day, that there came to him
two young gentlemen, (that were countrey men, and neighbors
children) for to know of him by his glasse, how their fathers did:
Hee being no niggard of his cunning, let them see his glasse,
wherein they straight beheld their wishes, which they (through
their owne follies) bought at their lives losse, as you shall heare.
The fathers of these two gentlemen, (in their sonnes absence)
were become great foes : this hatred betweene them was growne
to that height, that wheresoever they met, they had not onely
wordes but blowes. Just at that time, as it should seeme, that
their sonnes were looking to see how they were in health, they
were met, and had drawne, and were together by the eares.
Their sonnes seeing this, and having been alwayes great friends,
knew not what to say to one another, but beheld each other with
angry lookes. At last, one of their fathers, as they might per-
ceive in the glasse, had a fall, and the other taking advantage,
stood over him ready to strike him. The sonne of him that was
downe, could then containe himselfe no longer, but told the other
young man, this his father had received wrong. He answered
THE FAMOUS HISTORIE OF FRYER BACON. 361
againe, that it was faire. At last there grew such foule words
betweene them, and their bloods were so heated, that they pres-
ently stabbed one the other with their daggers, and so fell downe
dead.
Fryer Bacon seeing them fall, ranne to them, but it was too
late, for they were breathlesse ere he came. This made him to
grieve exceedingly : he iudging that they had received the cause
of their deaths by this glasse, tooke the glasse in his hand, and
uttered words to this effect :
Wretched Bacon, wretched in thy knowledge, in thy under-
standing wretched; for thy art hath beene the mine of these
two gentlemen. Had I been busied in those holy things, the
which mine order tyes me to, I had not had that time that made
this wicked glasse : wicked I well may call it, that is the causer
of so vile an act : would it were sensible, then should it feele
my wrath ; but being as it is. He ruin it for ruining of them ;
and with that he broke his rare and wonderfull glasse, whose
like the whole world had not. In this grief of his, came there
newes to him of the deaths of Vandermast and Fryer Bungey :
This did increase his griefe, and made him sorrowfull, that in
three days he would not eate any thing but kept his chamber.
Howe Fryer Bacon burnt his books of Mdgick^ and gave himself e to
the study of Divinity only ; and how he turned Anchorite.
In the time that Fryer Bacon kept his chamber, hee fell
into divers meditations : sometimes into the vanity of arts and
sciences : then would hee condemne himselfe for studying of
those things that were so contrary to his order and soules health ;
and would say, that magicke made a man a Devill : sometimes
would hee meditate on divinity ; then would he cry out upon
himselfe, for neglecting the study of it, and for studying magick :
sometime would he meditate on the shortnesse of mans life then
would he condemne himselfe for spending a time so short, so ill
as he had done his : so would he goe from one thing to another
and in all condemne his former studies.
And that the world should know how truly he did repent his
wicked life, he caused to be made a great fire ; and sending for
many of his friends, schollers, and others, he spake to them after
this manner : " My good friends and fellow students, it is not
unknowne unto you, how that through my art I have attained to
that credit, that few men living ever had : of the wonders that
862 THE FAMOUS HISTORIE OF FRTEB BACON.
I have done, all England can speak, both king and commons :
I have unlocked the secret of art and nature, and let the world
see those things, that have layen hid since the death of Hermes,
that rare and profound philosopher : my studies have found the
secrets of the starres ; the bookes that I have made of them, doe
serve for presidents to our greatest doctors, so excellent hath my
judgment beene therein. I likewise have found out the secrets
of trees, plants and stones, with their several uses ; yet all this
knowledge of mine I esteeme so lightly, that I wish that I were
ignorant, and knew nothing : for the knowledge of these things,
(as I have truly found) serveth not to better a man in goodnesse,
but onely to make him proud and thinke too well of himselfe*
What hath all my knowledge of natures secrets gained me ?
Onely this, the losse of a better knowledge, the losse of divine
studies, which makes the immortall part of man (his soule)
blessed. I have found, that my knowledge has beene a heavy
burden, and has kept downe my good thoughts : but I will
remove the cause, which are these bookes : which I doe pur-
pose here before you all to burne." They all entreated him to
spare the bookes, because in tliem there were those things that
after-ages might receive great benefit by. He would not hearken
imto them, but threw them all into the fire, and in that flame
burnt the greatest learning in the world. Then did he dispose
of all his goods ; some part he gave to poor schollers, and some
he gave to other poore f olkes : nothing left he for himselfe : then
caused he to be made in the church-wall a cell, where he locked
himselfe in, and there remained till his death. His time hee
spent in prayer, meditation, and such divine exercises, and did
seeke by all means to perswade men from the study of magicke.
Thus lived he some two yeeres space in that cell, never comming
forth : his meat and drink he received in at a window, and at
that window he did discourse with those that came to him ; his
grave he digged with his own nayles, and was laid there when
he dyed. Thus was the Life and Death of this famous Fryer,
who lived most part of his life a Magician, and dyed a true
Penitent Sinner, and an Anchorite.
VILLAGE LIFE IN ENGLAND. 863
VILLAGE LIFE IN ENGLAND SIX HUNDRED
YEARS AGO.
By AUGUSTUS JESSOPP.
[Rby. AnonsTus Jebsopp, English essayist and antiquarian, was bom in
Hertfordshire, 1824. He graduated at St John^s College, Cambridge, and has
a D.D. from Worcester College, Oxford. He has been head master of impor-
tant schools, and is rector of Seaming, in Norfolk. He has written and edited
many works of antiquarian and ecclesiastical interest, but his general fame rests
on his volumes of essays: ** Arcadia, for Better for Worse" (1887), *'The
Coming of the Friars," etc. (1888), »* Studies by a Recluse" (1892), "Ran-
dom Roaming and Other Papers" (1894).]
Few things have struck me more forcibly since I have cast
in my lot among country people, than the strange ignorance
which they exhibit of the history of themselves. I do not allude
to those unpleasant secrets which we should be very sorry indeed
for our next-door neighbors to be acquainted with, nor to any
such matters as our experience or memories of actual facts could
bring to our minds ; I mean something very much more than
that. Men and women are not only the beings they appear to
be at any one moment of their lives, they are not single separate
atoms like grains of sand. Rather they are like branches or
leaves of some great tree, from which they have sprung and on
which they have grown, whose life in the past has come at last
to them in the present, and without whose deep anchorage in
the soil, and its ages of vigor and vitality, not a bud or a spray
that is so fresh and healthful now would have had any existence.
Consider for a moment — Who are we, and what do we mean
by Ourselves? When I meet a ragged, shuffling tramp on the
road (and I meet a good many of them in my lonely walks) I
often find myself asking the question, ^^How did that shambling
vagabond come to his present condition ? Did his father turn
him out of doors? Did his mother drink? Did he learn noth-
ing but lying and swearing and thieving when he was a child ?
Was his grandfather hanged for some crime, or was his gfreat-
grandfather a ruffian killed in a fight ? " And I say to myself,
'' Though I do not know the truth, yet I am sure that man was
helped towards his vagabondism, helped to become an outcast
as he is, by the neglect or the wickedness, the crimes or the
bad example, of Jiis fathers and forefathers on one side or the
other ; for if he had come of decent people on both sides, people
who had been honestly and soberly brought up themselves, as
864 VILLAGE LIFE IN ENGLAND.
they tried to bring up their children, yonder dirty tramp would
not and could not have sunk to his present self." . • •
The barons' fiefs were often made up of estates in many dif-
f erent shires ; and, because it was impossible for the barons to
cultivate all their estates themselves they let them out to <ici-
tenants^ who in their turn were bound to render services to the
lord of the fief. These subtenants were the great men in the
several parishes, and became the actual lords of the manorsi
residing upon the manors, and having each, on their several
manors, very large powers for good or evil over the tillers of
the soil.
A manor six hundred years ago meant something very dif-
ferent from a manor now. The lord was a petty king, having
his subjects very much under his thumb. But his subjects
differed greatly in rank and status. In the first place, there
were those who were called the free tenants. The free tenants
were they who lived in houses of their own and cultivated land
of their own, and who made only an annual money payment to
the lord of the manor as an acknowledgment of his lordship.
The payment was trifling, amounting to some few pence an
acre at the most, and a shilling or so, as the case might be, for
the house. The free tenant was neither a yearly tenant, nor a
leaseholder. His holding was, to all intents and purposes, his
own — subject, of course, to the payment of the ground rent.
But if he wanted to sell out of his holding, the lord of the
manor exacted a payment for the privilege. If he died, his
heir had to pay for being admitted to his inheritance, and if he
died without heirs, the property went back to the lord of the
manor, who then, but only then, could raise the ground rent if
he pleased, though he rarely did so.
Besides tliese were the villeins or villani^ or natives^ as they
were called. The villeins were tillers of the soil, who held
land under the lord, and who, besides paying a small money
ground rent, were obliged to perform certain arduous services
to the lord, such as to plow the lord's land for so many days
in the year, to carry his corn in the harvest, to provide a ciurt
on occasion, etc. Of course these burdens pressed very heavily
at times, and the services of the villeins were vexatious and
irritating under a hard and unscrupulous lord. But there were
other serious inconveniences about the condition of the villein
or native. Once a villein, always a villein. A man or woman
bom in villeinage could never shake it off. Nay, they might
VILLAGE LIFE IN ENGLAND. 866
not even go away from the manor to which they were born, and
they might not marry without the lord's license, and for that
license they always had to pay. Let a villein be ever so shrewd
or enterprising or thrifty, there was no hope for him to change
his state, except by the special grace of the lord of the manor.
(I do not take account of those who ran away to the corporate
towns. I suspect that there were many more cases of this than
some writers allow. It was sometimes a serious inconvenience
to the lords of manors near such towns as Norwich or Lynn.
A notable example may be found in the "Abbrev. Placit.,"
p. 316 (6°. E. ii. Easter term). It seems that no less than
eighteen villeins of the Manor of Cossey were named in a man-
date to the Sheriff of Norfolk and Suffolk, who were to be taken
and reduced to villeinage, and their goods seized. Six of them
pleaded that they were citizens of Norwich — the city being
about four miles from Cossey.) Yes, there was one means
whereby he could be set free, and that was if he could get a
bishop to ordain him. The fact of a man being ordained at
once made him a free man, and a knowledge of this fact must
have served as a very strong inducement to young people to
avail themselves of all the helps in their power to obtain some-
thing like an education, and so to qualify themselves for
admission to the clerical order and to the rank of freeman.
At Rougham there was a certain Ralph Red, who was one
of these villeins under the lord of the manor, a certain William
le Butler. Ralph Red had a son Ralph, who I suppose was an
intelligent youth, and made the most of his brains. He man-
aged to get ordained about six hundred years ago, and he became
a chaplain, perhaps to that very chapel of ease I mentioned
before. His father, however, was still a villein, liable to all the
villein services, and belonging to the manor and the lord, he and
all his offspring. Young Ralph did not like it, and at last, get-
ting the money together somehow, he bought his father's free-
dom, and, observe, with his freedom the freedom of all his
father's children too, and the price he paid was twenty marks.
(N. B. — A man could not buy his own freedom.) That sounds
a ridiculously small sum, but I feel pretty sure that six hun-
dred years ago twenty marks would be almost as difficult for a
penniless young chaplain to get together as X500 for a penni-
less young curate to amass now. Of the younger Ralph, who
bought his father's freedom, I know little more; but, less than
one hundred and fifty years after the elder man received bis
866 VILLAGE LIFE IN ENGLAND.
liberty, a lineal descendant of his became lord of the manor oi
Rougham, and, though he had no son to carry on his name, he
had a daughter who married a learned judge, Sir William
Yelverton, Knight of the Bath, whose monument you may still
see at Rougham Church, and from whom were descended the
Yelvertons, Earls of Sussex, and the present Lord Avonmore,
who is a scion of the same stock.
When Ralph Red bought his father's freedom of William
le Butler, William gave him an acknowledgment for the
iQoney, and a written certificate of the transaction, but he did
not sign his name. In those days nobody signed their names,
not because they could not write, for I suspect that just as
large a proportion of people in England could write well six
hundred years ago, as could have done so forty years ago, but
because it was not the fashion to sign one's name. Instead of
doing that, everybody who was a fi*ee man, and a man of sub-
stance, in executing any legal instrument, affixed to it his iecU^
and that stood for liis signature. People always carried their
seals about with them in a purse or small bag, and it was no
uncommon thing for a pickpocket to cut off this bag and run
away with the seal, and thus put the owner to very serious
inconvenience. This was what actually did happen once to
William le Butler's father-in-law. He was a certain Sir Rich*
ard Bellhouse, and he lived at North Tuddenham, near Dere-
ham. Sir Richard was High Sheriff for the counties of Norfolk
and Suffolk in 1291, and his duties brought him into court on
January 25th of that year, before one of the Judges at West-
minster. I suppose the court was crowded, and in the crowd
some rogue cut off Sir Richard's purse, and made off with his
seal. I never heard that he got it back again.
And now I must return to the point from which I wandered
when I began to speak of the free tenants and the "villeins."
William le Butler, who sold old Ralph Red to his own son,
the young Ralph, wiis himself spuing from a family who had
held the Manor of Rougham for about a century. His father
was Sir Richard le Butler, who died about 1280, leaving behind
him one son, our friend William, and three daughters. Unfor-
tunately, William le Butler survived his father only a very
short time, and he left no child to succeed him. The result
was that the inheritance of the old knight was divided among
his daughters, and what had been hitherto a single lordship
became three lordships, each of the parceners looking very jeal-
VILLAGE LIFE IN ENGLAND. 867
ously after his own interest, and striving to make the most of
his powers and rights.
Though each of the husbands of Sir Richard le Butler's
daughters was a man of substance and influence — yet, when
the manor was divided, no one of them was anything like so
great a person as the old Sir Richard. In those days, as in
our own, there were much richer men in the country than the
country gentlemen, and in Rougham at this time there were
two very prosperous men who were competing with one another
as to which should buy up most land in the parish and be the
great man of the place. The one of these was a gentleman
called Peter the Roman, and the other was called Thomas the
Lucky. They were both the sons of Rougham people, and
it will be necessary to pursue the history of each of them to
make you understand how things went in those "good old
times."
First let me deal with Peter the Roman. He was the son
of a Rougham lady named Isabella, by an Italian gentleman
named lacomo de Ferentino, or if you like to translate it into
English, James of Ferentinum.
How James of Ferentinum got to Rougham and captured one
of the Rougham heiresses we shall never know for certain. But
we do know that in the days of King Henry, who was the father
of King Edward, there was a very large incursion of Italian
clergy into England, and that the Pope of Rome got prefer-
ment of all kinds for them. In fact, in King Henry's days
the Pope had immense power in England, and it looked for a
while as if every valuable piece of preferment in the kingdom
would be bestowed upon Italians who did not know a word of
English, and who often never came near their livings at all.
One of these Italian gentlemen, whose name was John de
Ferentino, was very near being made Bishop of Norwich; he
was Archdeacon of Norwich, but though the Pope tried to make
him bishop, he happily did not succeed in forcing him into the
see that time, and John of Ferentinum had to content himself
with his archdeaconry and one or two other preferments.
Our friend at Rougham may have been, and probably was,
some kinsman of the archdeacon, and it is just possible that
Archdeacon Middleton, who, you remember, bought the Lyng
House, may have had, as his predecessor in it, another Arch-
deacon, this John de Ferentino, whose nephew or brother, James,
married Miss Isabella de Rucham, and settled down among his
868 VILLAGE LIFE IN ENGLAND.
wife's kindred. Be tbat as it may, John de Ferentino tiad two
Bons, Peter and Richard, and it appears that their father, not
content with such education aa Oxford or Cambridge could
afford — though at this time Oxford was one of the most re-
nowned universities in Europe — seat his sons to Rome, having
an eye to their future advancement; for in King Henry's days
a young man that had friends at Rome was much more likely
to get on in the world than he who had only friends in the
King's Court, and he who wished to push his interests in the
Church must look to the Pope, and not to the King of England,
as his main support.
When young Peter came back to Roughani, I dare say he
brought back with him some new airs and graces from Italy,
and I dare say the new fashions made his neighbors open their
eyes. They gave the young fellow the name he is known by
in the charters, and to the day of his death people called him
Peter Gomayn, or Peter the Roman. But Peter came back a
changed man in more ways than one. He came bitck a cleric.
We in England now recognize only tliree orders of clergy —
bishops, priests, and deacons. But six hundred years ago it
was very different. In those days a man might be two or three
degrees below a deacon, and yet be counted a cleric and belong-
ing to the clergj'; and, though Peter Romayn was not priest or
deacon, he was a privileged person in many ways, but a very
unprivileged person in one way — he might never marry.
It was a hard case for a young man who had taken to the
clerical profession without taking to the clerical life, and all
the harder because there were old men living whose fathers or
grandfathers had known the days when even a Bishop of Nor-
wich was married, and who could tell of many an old country
clergyman who had had his wife and children in the parsonage.
But now — just six hundred years ago — if a young fellow had
once been admitted a member of the clerical body, he was no
longer under the protection of the laws of the realm, nor bound
by them, but he was under the dominion of another law, com-
monly known as the Canon Law, which the Pope of Rome had
succeeded in imposing upon the clergy; and in accordance with
that law, if he took to himself a wife, he was, to all Intfints
and purposes, a ruined man.
But when laws are pitted against human nature, they may
be forced upon people by the strong hand of power, but they
are sui'e to be evaded where they are not broken literally; and
VILLAGE LIFE IN ENGLAND. 869
this law of forbidding clergymen to many wa8 evaded in many
ways. Clergymen took to themselves wives, and had families.
Again and again their consciences justified them in their course,
whatever the Canon Law might forbid or denounce. They mar-
ried on the sly — if that may be called marriage which neither
the Church nor the State recognized as a binding contract, and
which was ratified by no formality or ceremony civil or reli-
gious: but public opinion was lenient; and where a clergyman
was living otherwise a blameless life, his people did not think
the worse of him for having a wife and children, however much
the Canon Law and certain bigoted people might give the wife
a bad name. And so it came to pass that Peter Romayn of
Rougham, cleric though he were, lost his heart one fine day to
a young lady at Rougham, and marry he would. The young
lady's name was Matilda. Her father, though born at Rougham,
appears to have gone away from there when very young, and
made money somehow at Leicester. He had married a Norfolk
lady, one Agatha of Cringleford ; and he seems to have died,
leaving his widow and daughter fairly provided for ; and they
lived in a house at Rougham, wliich I dare say Richard of Lei-
cester had bought. I have no doubt that young Peter Romayn was
a young gentleman of means, and it is clear that Matilda was a
very desirable bride. But then Peter couldn't marry! How was
it to be managed? I think it almost certain that no religious
ceremony was performed, but I have no doubt that the two
plighted their troth either to each, and that somehow they did
become man and wife, if not in the eyes of Canon Law, yet by
the sanction of a higher law to which the consciences of honor-
able men and women ap{>eal against the immoral enactments of
human legislation.
Among the charters at Rougham I find eighteen or twenty
which were executed by Peter Romayn and Matilda. In no
one of them is she called his wife ; in all of them it is stipulated
that the property shall descend to whomsoever they shall leave
it, and in only one instance, and there I believe by a mistake of
the Kcril)c, is there any mention of their lawful heirs. They buy
land and sell it, sometimes separately, more often conjointly, but
in all cases the interests of both are kept in view; the charters
are witnessed by the principal people in the place, including
Sir Richard Butler himself, more than once ; and in one of the
later charters Peter Romayn, iis if to provide against the con-
tingency of his own death, makes over all his property in
VOL. IX. — 24
870 VILLAGE LIFE IN ENGLAND.
Rougham without reserve to Matilda, and constitutes her the
mistress of it all.
Some year or two after this, Matilda executes her last con-
veyance, and executes it alone. She sells her whole interest in
Rougham — the house in which she lives and all that it con-
tains — lands and ground rents, and everything else, for money
down, and we hear of her no more. Did she retire from the
world, and find refuge in a nunnery ? Did she go away to some
other home? Who knows? And what of Peter the Roman?
I know little of him, but I suspect the pressure put upon
the poor man was too strong for him, and I suspect that some-
how, and, let us hope, with much anguish and bitterness of
heart — but yet somehow, he was compelled to repudiate the
poor woman to whom there is evidence to show he was true and
stanch as long as it was possible — and when it was no longer
possible I think he too turned his back upon the Rougham home,
and was presented by the Prior of Westacre Monastery to the
Rectory of Bodney at the other end of the county, where, let
us hope, he died in peace.
It is a curious fact that Peter Romayn was not the only
clergyman in Rougham whom we know to have been married.
As for Peter Romayn, I believe he was an honorable man ac-
cording to his light, and as far as any men were honorable in
those rough days. But for the other. I do not feel so sure
about him.
I said that the two prosperous men in Rougham six hundred
years ago were Peter Romayn and Thomas the Lucky, or, as
his name appears in the Latin Charters, Thomas Felix. When
Archdeacon Middleton gave up living at Rougham, Thomas
Felix bought his estate, called the Lyng House ; and shortly
after he bought another estate, which, in fact, was a manor of
its own, and comprehended thirteen free tenants and five vil-
leins ; and, as though this were not enough, on September 24,
1292, he took a lease of another manor in Rougham for six
years, of one of the daughters of Sir Richard le Butler, whose
husband, I suppose, wanted to go elsewhere. Before the lease
expired ho died, leaving behind him a widow named Sara and
three little daughters, the eldest of whom cannot have been
more than eight or nine years old. This was in the year
1294. Sara, the widow, was for the time a rich woman, and
she made up her mind never to marry again, and she kept her
resolve.
VILLAGE LIFE IN ENGLAND. 871
When her eldest daughter Alice came to the mature age of
fifteen or sixteen, a young man named John of Thyrsford wooed
and won her. Mistress Alice was by no means a portionless
damsel, and Mr. John seems himself to have been a man of
substance. How long they were married I know not ; but it
could not have been more than a year or two, for less than five
years after Mr. Felix's death a great event happened, which
produced very momentous effects upon Rougham and its inhab-
itants in more ways than one.
Up to this time there had been a rector at Rougham, and
apparently a good rectory house and some acres of glebe land
— how many I cannot say. But the canons of Westacre Priory
cast their eyes upon the rectory of Rougham, and they made up
their minds they would have it. I dare not stop to explain how
the job was managed — that would lead me a great deal too far
— but it was managed, and accordingly, a year or two after the
marriage of little Alice, they got possession of all the tithes
and the glebe, and the good rectory house at Rougham, and
they left the parson of the parish with a smaller house on the
other side of the road, and not contiguous to the church, an
allowance of two quarters of wheat and two quarters of barley
a year, and certain small dues which might suflBce to keep body
and soul together, but little more.
John of Thyrsford had not been married more than a year
or two when he had had enough of it. Whether at the time of
his marriage he was already a cleric^ I cannot tell, but I know
that on October 10, 1301, he was a priest, and that on that day
he WHS instituted to the vicarage of Rougham, having been
already divorced from poor little Alice. As for Alice — if I
understand the case, she never could marry, however much she
may have wished it ; she had no children to comfort her ; she
became by and by the great lady of Rougham, and there she
lived on for nearly fifty years. Her husband, the vicar, lived
on too — on what t^rms of intimacy I am unable to say. The
vicar died some ten years before the lady. When old age was
creeping on her she made over all her houses and lands in
Rougham to feoffees, and I have a suspicion that she went into
a nunnery and there died.
In dealing with the two cases of Peter Romayn and John of
Thyrsford I have used the term cleric more than once. These
two men were, at the end of their career at any rate, what we
now understand by clergyman ; but there were hosts of men six
872 VILLAGE LIFE IN ENGLAND.
hundred years ago in Norfolk who were clerics^ and yet who
were by no means what we now understand by clergymen.
The clerics of six hundred years ago comprehended all those
whom we now call the professional classes ; all, t.e., who lived
by their brains, as distinct from those who lived by trade or the
labor of their hands.
Six hundred years ago it may be said that there were two
kinds of law in England, tlie one was the law of the land, the
other was the law of the Church. The law of the land was
hideously cruel and merciless, and the gallows and the pillory,
never far from any man's door, were seldom allowed to remain
long out of use. The ghastly frequency of the punishment by
death tended to make people savage and bloodthirsty. (In 1298
a case is recorded of three men, one of them a goldsmith, who
had their right hands chopped off in the middle of the street in
London.) It tended, too, to make men absolutely reckless of
consequences when once their passions were roused. " As well
be hung for a sheep as a lamb" was a saying that had a grim
truth in it. When a violent ruffian knew that if ho robbed his
host in the night he would be sure to be hung for it, and if he
killed him he could be no more than hung, he had nothing to
gain by letting him live, and nothing to lose if he cut his throat.
Where another knew that by tampering with the coin of the
realm he was sure to go to the gallows for it, he might as well
make a good fight before he was taken, and murder any one who
stood in the way of his escape. Hanging went on at a pace
which we cannot conceive, for in those days the criminal law of
tlie land was not, as it is now, a strangely devised machinery
for protecting the wrongdoer, but it was an awful and tremen-
dous power ioT slaying all who were dangerous to the persons or
the property of the community.
The law of the Cliurch, on the other hand, was much more
lenient. To hurry a man to death with his sins and crimes
fresh upon him, to slaughter nn?n wholesale for acts that could
not be regarded as enormously wicked, shocked those who had
learnt that the (iosi)el taught sucli virtues as mercy and long-
suffering, and gave men hopes of forgiveness on repentance.
The Church set itself against the atrocious mangling, and brand-
ing, and hanging that was being dealt out blindly, hastily, and
indiscriminately, to every kind of transgressor ; and inasmuch
as the Church law and tlie law of the land six hundred years
ago were often in conQict, the Church law acted to a great
VILLAGE LIFE IN ENGLAND. 873
extent as a check upon the shocking ferocity of the criminal
code. And this is how the check was exercised.
A man who was a cleric was only half amenable to the law
of the land. He was a citizen of the realm, and a subject of
the king, but he was more : he owed allegiance to the Church,
and claimed the Church's protection also. Accordingly, when-
ever a cleric got into trouble, and there was only too good
cause to believe that if he were brought to his trial he would
have a short shrift and no favor, scant justice and the inevitable
gallows within twenty-four hours at the longest, he proclaimed
himself a cleric^ and demanded the protection of the Church,
and was forthwith handed over to the custody of the ordinary
or bishop. The process was a clumsy one, and led, of course,
to great abuses, but it had a good side. As a natural and
inevitable consequence of such a privilege accorded to a class,
there was a very strong inducement to become a member of
that class ; and as the Church made it easy for any fairly
educated man to be admitted at any rate to the lower orders
of the ministry, any one who preferred a professional career,
or desired to give himself up to a life of study, enrolled him-
self among the clerics^ and was henceforth reckoned as belong-
ing to the clergy.
The country swarmed with these clerics. Only a small
proportion of them ever became ministers of religion ; they
were lawyers, or even lawyers' clerks ; they were secretaries ;
some few were quacks with nostrums ; and these all were just
as much clerics as the cliaplains, who occupied pretty much the
same position as our curates do now, — clergymen, strictly so
called, who were on the lookout for employment, and who
earned a very precarious livelihood, — or the rectors and vicars,
who were the beneficed clergy, and who were the parsons of
parishes occupying almost exactly the same position that they
do at this moment, and who were almost exactly in the same
social position as they are now. Six hundred years ago there
were at least seven of these clerics in Rougham, all living in the
place at the same time, besides John of Thyrsford, the vicar.
Five of them were chaplains, two were merely clerics. If there
were seven of these clerical gentlemen whom I happen to have
met with in my examination of the Rougham Charters, there
must have been others who were not people of sufficient note to
witness the execution of important legal instruments, nor with
the means to buy land or houses in the parish. It can hardly be
874 VJLLAGE LIFE IN ENGLAND.
putting the number too high if we allow that there must have
been at least ten or a dozen clerics of one sort or another in
Rougham six hundred years ago.
How did they all get a livelihood ? is a question not easy
to answer ; but there were many ways of picking up a liveli-
hood by these gentlemen. To begin with, they could take an
engagement as tutor in a gentleman's family ; or they could
keep a small school ; or earn a trifle by drawing up convey-
ances, or by keeping the accounts of the lord of the manor.
In some cases they acted as private chaplains, getting their
victuals for their remuneration, and sometimes they were
merely loafing about, and living upon their friends, and taking
the place of the country parson if he were sick or past work.
Then, too, the smaller monasteries had one or more chaplains,
and I suspect that the canons at Castle Acre always would
keep two or tliree chaplains in their pay, and it is not unlikely
that as long as Archdeacon Middleton kept on his big house at
Rougham he would have a chaplain, who would be attached
to the place, and bound to perform the service in the great
man's chapel.
But besides the clerics and the chaplains and the rector or
vicar, there was another class, the members of which just at
this time were playing a very important part indeed in the
religious life of the people, and not in the religious life alone ;
these were the Friars. If the monks looked down upon the
parsons, and stole their endowments from them whenever they
could, and if in return the parsons hated the monks and re-
garded them with profound suspicion and jealousy, both parsons
and monks were united in their common dislike of the Friars.
Six hundred years ago the Friars had been established in
England about sixty years, and they were now by far the most
influential Religionists in the country. The Friars, though
always stationed in the towns, and by this time occupying large
cstablislmients wliich were built for them in Lynn, Yarmouth,
Norwich, and elsewhere, were always acting the part of itin-
erant preacliers, and traveled their circuits on foot, supported
by alms. Sometimes the parson lent them the church, some-
times they held a camp meeting in spite of him, and just as
often as not they left behind them a feeling of great soreness,
irritation, and discontent ; but six hundred years ago the preach-
ing of the Friars was an immense and incalculable blessing to the
country, and if it had not been for the wonderful reformation
VILLAGE LIFE IN ENGLAND. 875
wrought by their activity and burning enthusiasm, it is difficult
to see what we should have come to or what corruption might
have prevailed in Church and State.
When the Friars came into a village, and it was known that
they were going to preach, you may be sure that the whole
population would turn out to listen. Sermons in those days
in the country were very rarely delivered. As I have said,
there were no pulpits in the churches then. A parson might
hold a benefice for fifty years, and never once have written or
composed a sermon. A preaching parson, one who regularly
exhorted his people or expounded to them the Scriptures,
would have been a wonder indeed, and thus the coming of the
Friars and the revival of pulpit oratory was all the more wel-
come because the people had not become wearied by the too
frequent iteration of truths which may be repeated so fre-
quently as to lose their vital force. A sermon was an event
in those days, and a preacher with any real gifts of oratory
was looked upon as a prophet sent by God. Never was there
a time when the people needed more to be taught the very
rudiments of morality. Never had there been a time when
people cared less whether their acts and words were right or
wrong, true or false. It had almost come to this, that what
a man thought would be to his profit, that was good ; what
would entail upon him a loss, that was evil.
And this brings me to another point, viz. the lawlessness
and crime in country villages six hundred years ago. But
before I can speak on that subject it is necessary that I should
first try to give you some idea of the everyday life of your
forefathers. What did they eat and drink? what did they wear?
what did they do from day to day ? Were they happy ? content ?
prosperous ? or was their lot a hard and bitter one ? For ac-
cording to the answer we get to questions such as these, so
shall we be the better prepared to expect the people to have
been peaceable citizens, or sullen, miserable, and dangerous
ruffians, goaded to frequent outbursts of ferocious savagedom
by hunger, oppression, hatred, and despair.
Six hundred years ago no parish in Norfolk had more than
a part of its land under tillage. As a rule, the town or village,
with its houses, great and small, consisted of a long street, the
church and parsonage being situated about the middle of the
parish. Not far off stood the manor house, with its hall where
the manor courts were held, and its farm buildings, dovecot,
876 VILLAGE LIFE m ENGLAND.
and usually its mill for grinding the corn of the tenants. No
tenant of the manor might take his corn to be ground anywhere
except at the lord's mill ; and it is easy to see what a grievance
this would bo felt to be at times, and how the lord of the manor,
if he were needy, unscrupulous, or extortionate, might grind the
faces of the poor while he ground their corn. Behind most
of the houses in the village might be seen a croft or paddock,
an orchard or a small garden. But the contents of the gar-
dens were very different from the vegetables we see now ; there
were, perhaps, a few cabbages, onions, parsnips, or carrots, and
apparently some kind of beet or turnip. The potato had never
been heard of.
As for the houses themselves, they were squalid enough for
the most part. The manor house was often built of stone,
when stone was to be had, or where, as in Norfolk, no stone
was to be had, then of flint, as in so many of our church towers.
Usually, however, the manor house was built in great part of
timber. The poorer houses were dirty hovels, run up " anyhow,"
sometimes covered with turf, sometimes with thatch. None of
them had chimneys. Six hundred years ago houses with chim-
neys were at least as rare as houses heated by hot-water pipes
are now. Moreover, there were no brick houses. It is a
curious fact that the art of making bricks seems to have been
lost in England for some hundreds of years. The laborer^s
dwelling had no windows ; the hole in the roof which let out
the smoke rendered windows unnecessary, and, even in the
houses of the well-to-do, glass windows were rare. In many
cases oiled linen cloth served to admit a feeble semblance of
light, and to keep out the rain. The laborer's fire was in the
middle of his house; he and his wife and children huddled
round it, sometimes groveling in the ashes ; and going to bed
meant flinging themselves down upon the straw which served
them as mattress and feather bed, exactly as it does to the
present day in the gypsy's tent in our byways. The laborer's
only light by night was the smoldering fire. Why should he
burn a rushlight when there was nothing to look at? and
reading was an accomplishment which few laboring men were
masters of.
As to the food of the majority, it was of the coarsest. The
fathers of many a man and woman in every village in Norfolk
can remember the time when the laborer looked upon wheat
bread as a rare delicacy ; and those legacies which were left by
VILLAGE LIFE IN ENGLAND. 877
kindly people a century or two ago, providing for the weekly
distribution of so many white loaves to the poor, tell us of a
time when the poor man's loaf was as dark as mud, and as tough
as his shoe leather. In the winter time things went very hard
indeed with all classes. There was no lack of fuel, for the
brakes and waste afforded turf which all might cut, and kin-
dling which all had a right to carry away ; but the poor horses
and sheep and cattle were half starved for at least four months
in the year, and one and all were much smaller than they are
now. I doubt whether people ever fatted their hogs as we do.
When the corn was reaped, the swine were turned into the
stubble and roamed about the underwood ; and when they
had increased their weight by the feast of roots and mast and
acorns, they were slaughtered and salted for the winter fare,
only so many being kept alive as might not prove burdensome
to the scanty resources of the people. Salting down the ani-
mals for the winter consumption was a very serious expense.
All the salt used was produced by evaporation in pans near the
seaside, and a couple of bushels of salt often cost as much as a
sheep. This must have compelled the people to spare the salt
as much as possible, and it must have been only too common to
find the bacon more than rancid, and the ham alive again with
maggots. If the salt was dear and scarce, sugar was unknown
except to the very rich. The poor man had little to sweeten
his lot. The bees gave him honey ; and long after the time
I am dealing with people left not only their hives to their
children by will, but actually bequeathed a summer flight of
bees to their friends ; while the hive was claimed by one, the
next swarm might become the property of another.
As for the drink, it was almost exclusively water, beer, and
cider. Any one who pleased might brew beer without tax or
license, and everybody who was at all before the world did brew
his own beer according to his own taste. But in those days
the beer was very different stuff from that which you are
familiar with. To begin with, people did not use hops. Hops
were not put into beer till long after the time we are concerned
with. I dare say they flavored their beer with horehound and
other herbs, but they did not understand those tricks which
brewers are said to practice nowadays for making the beer
" heady " and sticky and poisonous. I am not prepared to say
the beer was better, or that you would have liked it ; but I am
pretty sure that in those days it was easier to get pure beer in
17^ VILLAGE LIFE IN ENGLAND.
. ouiurv \ lilatfe ihuu it is now, and if a man chose to drink bad
tf.f -b lad 'Uiiy liimself to thank for it. There was no such
!it.»m»poiV L6 liiere i« now. I am inclined to think that there
\rit» t fiv ^^it?iiL laany more people who sold beer in the
Muiuiv i».iii>iii.s liian sell it now, and I am sorry to say that the
't'ci ^nici> ii ilio^e days had the reputation of being rather a
't»ii ' 'I. It i> vjUiLe certain that they were very often in trouble,
■ iiu.ii .yd itiovntenses punished by line at the manor courts none
^ •iw.r. . .'iiiuioii iliau ihal of selling beer in false measures.
■ ►k' iiioiiiud «»i' oiieaiing their customers by the beer sellers
Awi.>, *w lit: loiil, exactly the contrary plan followed by our
•.i,w.i.4 liioluMiis. Now, when a man gets into a warm corner
;, u '.o till* use, ihcv loll me that John Barleycorn is apt to
»v.v. .'.11 5UOU5 ilriiik tliiiii is good for him; but six hundred
Nv.i. » Aj^st liic l)rcr .seller made his profit, or tried to make it, by
;iN.:i>; 'jL. « ii.sLoiuer less than he asked for. Tobacco was
..liu: iiilvuouii ; it was tirst brought into England about three
luiiauAi N^ar.N .liter the days we are dealing with. When a
•uaa «'iuk: all liimself dowu witli his pot he had nothing to do
Su. aiiiik. lie luul no pipe to take off his attention from his
Kpu.i. K .ueU a portentous sight could have been seen in
i:u'.4. .lii,\ • .1.1 tliiit t>l* a man vomiting forth clouds of smoke
iu:u liii iiu»uih and nostrils, the beholders would have un-
.u»ul»u'.ll\ uikrii lt» their heels and run for their lives, protest-
ni.; ili.vi I III! <U'.vil himself had appeared to them, breathing
Iv'mU iiii- uid llaiues. Tea and coffee, too, were absolutely
uuKui»\\ii, uiihciinl of ; and wine was the rich man's beverage,
,. II \ti i»ti\v. I'he lire waters of our own time — the gin and
(lu. luiii. v\hi4-h have wrought us all such incalculable mischief
xw U' in't ih.iit»vered then. Some little ardent spirits, known
nti.lt t I hi. li.iine i>f conlials^ were to be found in the better-
.,jH.,. iuii.il i..3lal»li.ihmt^nts, and were kept by the lady of the
U,,im. .iiuoii^ hiU' Himples, and on special occasions dealt out in
iUimlil».liil.» ; liiit the. vile grog, that maddens people now, our
i».u.liiih..io nl .su huihln-d years ago had never even tasted.
Ihi. .ihoiiiiij <»f vegt^table food for the greater part of the
^,,o. ih.. |.i.io««niil ilirt of the people, the sleeping at night in
(III! i.lnih'-^ vTt'iii ill the day, and other causes, made skin dis-
\>^\*^v^i lii^^hltiilly lomiiion. At the outskirts of every town
Ui |i'ii|jl'Wnl i*t iiny Mi/(} there were crawling about emaciated
iiiwi*-****'** «-Nv«in>»l with loathsome sores, living heaven knows
UmW 'Hi>*y vvtwit oitllnd by the common name of lepers, and
VILLAGE LIFE IN ENGLAND. 379
probably the leprosy strictly so called was awfully common.
But the children must have swarmed with vermin ; and the
itch, and the scurvy, and the ringworm, with other hideous
eruptions, must have played fearful havoc with the weak and
sickly.
As for the dress of the working classes, it was hardly dress
at all. I doubt whether the great mass of the laborers in Nor-
folk had more than a single garment — a kind of tunic leaving
the arms and legs bare, with a girdle of rope or leather round
the waist, in which a man's knife was stuck, to use sometimes
for hacking his bread, sometimes for stabbing an enemy in a
quarrel. As for any cotton goods, such as are familiar to you
all, they had never been dreamt of, and I suspect that no more
people in Norfolk wore linen habitually than now wear silk.
Money was almost inconceivably scarce. The laborer's
wages were paid partly in rations of food, partly in other
allowances, and only partly in money ; he had to take what he
could get. Even the quitrent, or what I have called the
ground rent, was frequently compounded for by the tenant
being required to find a pair of gloves, or a pound of cummin,
or some other acknowledgment in lieu of a money payment ;
and one instance occurs among the Rougham Charters of a man
buying as much as eleven and one half acres, and paying for
them partly in money and partly in barley. (In the year 1276
halfpence and farthings were coined for the first time. This
must have been a great boon to the poorer classes, and it evi-
dently was felt to be a matter of great importance.) Nothing
shows more plainly the scarcity of money than the enormous
interest that was paid for a loan. The only bankers were the
Jews ; and when a man was once in their hands he was never
likely to get out of their clutches again. But six hundred
years ago the Jews had almost come to the end of their tether ;
and in the year 1290 they were driven out of the country, men,
women, and children, with unutterable barbarity, only to be
replaced by other bloodsuckers who were not a whit less mer-
cenary, perhaps, but only less pushing and successful in their
usury.
It is often said that the monasteries were the great sup-
porters of the poor, and fed them in times of scarcity. It may
be so, but I should like to see the evidence for the statement.
At present I doubt the fact, at any rate as far as Norfolk goes.
On the contrary, I am strongly impressed with the belief that
?,JiO VILLAGE LIFE IN ENGLAND.
3LX hundred years ago the poor had no friends. The parsons
-v=5re needy themselves. In too many cases one clergyman
lield two or three livings, took liis tithes and spent them in the
roT¥ii. and left a chaplain with a bare subsistence to fill his
-;la.2e in the country. There was no parson's wife to drop in
md sj-cak a kind word — no clergyman's daughter to give a
:r:eiiily nod, or teach the little ones at Sunday school — no
- ncning influences, no sympathy, no kindliness. What could
;^ expect of people with such dreary surroundings? — what
.:r :La: which we know actually was the condition of affairs?
l"^e records of crime and outrage in Norfolk six hundred years
L;^: are still preserved, and may be read by any one who knows
.io'v :o decipher them. I had intended to examine carefully
..le entries of crime for this neighborhood for the year 1286,
iiid to give you the result this evening, but I have not had
.III o'j;xntunity of doin^? so. The work has been done for
.lie hundred of North Erpingham by my friend Mr. Rye, and
'\'m: is true for one part of Norfolk during any single year
s not likely to be very different from what was going on in
mother.
The picture we get of the utter lawlessness of the whole
vatit \ * however, at the beginning of King Edward's reig^ is
jui.c dreadful enough. Nobody seems to have resorted to the
;i\v lo miiintain a right or redress a wrong, till every other
iiCvh^Hl had been tried. Starting with the squires, if I may use
10 UTUU and those well-to-do people who ought to have been
inh^Uij the most law-abiding members of the community — we
iud thorn setting an example of violence and rapacity, bad to
v\ul ot\ One of the most common causes of offense was when
u* Uvixl of tlie manor attempted to invade the rights of the
■ iMuis of the manor by setting up a fold on the heath, or
•> ua/\y as it was called. What the lord was inclined to do,
uvt iho tenants would try to do also, as when in 1272 John de
S\v,vuiv»n si't up a fold in the common fields at Billingford ;
uhoiv^upon the other tenants pulled it down, and there was a
.. • ivuis* disturbance, and the matter dragged on in the law
..nils for four years and more. Or as when the Prior of Wy-
.Kaivlhaiii impKuuls William de Calthorp for interfering with
lii.-i (v»liliigo at lUirnham, Calthorp replying that the Prior had
•uk liglit to fohlage, and that he (Calthorp) had the right to
pull {\\^^ fohl (h)wn. In these cases, of course, there would be a
Ijv^v^vul gtilluMMUg and a riot, for every one's interest was at
VILLAGE LIFE IN ENGLAND. 881
stake ; but it was not only when some general grievance was
felt that people in those days were ready for a row.
It really looks as if nothing was more easy than to collect a
band of people who could be let loose anywhere to work any
mischief. One man had a claim upon another for a debt, or a
piece of land, or a right which was denied — had the claim, or
fancied he had — and he seems to have had no diflBculty in get-
ting together a score or two of roughs to back him in taking
the law into his own hands. As when John de la Wade in
1270 persuaded a band of men to help him in invading the
manor of Ilamon de Clere, in this very parish of Tittleshall,
seizing the corn and threshing it, and, more wonderful still,
cutting down timber and carrying it off. There are actually
two other cases of a precisely similar kind recorded this same
year, one where a gang of fellows in broad day seems to have
looted the manors of Dunton and Mileham ; the other case was
where a mob, under the leadership of three men, who are named,
entered by force into the manor of Dunham, laid hands on a
quantity of timber fit for building purposes, and took it away
bodily! A much more serious case, however, occurred some
years after this, when two gentlemen of position in Norfolk,
with twenty-five followers, who appear to have been their
regular retainers, and a great multitude on foot and horse,
came to Little Barningham, where in the Hall there lived an
old lady, Petronilla de Gros ; they set fire to the house in five
places, dragged out the old lady, treated her with the most
brutal violence, and so worked upon her fears that they com-
pelled her to tell them where her money and jewels were, and
having seized them, I conclude that they left her to warm
herself at the smoldering ruins of her mansion.
On another occasion there was a fierce riot at Rainham.
There the manor had become divided into three portions, as we
have seen was the case at Rougham. One Thomas de Hauville
had one portion, and Thomas de Ingoldesthorp and Robert de
Scales held the other two portions. Thomas de Hauville, per-
adventure, felt aggrieved because some rogue had not been
whipped or torture(l cruelly enough to suit his notions of salu-
tary justice, whereupon he went to the expense of erecting a
brand-new pillory, and apparently a gallows too, to strike ter-
ror into the minds of the disorderly. The other parceners of
the manor were indignant at the act, and collecting nearly sixty
of the people of Rainham, they pulled down the new pillory and
382 VILLAGE LIFE IN ENGLAND.
utterly destroyed the same. When the case came before the
judges, the defendants pleaded in effect that if Thomas de Hau-
ville had put up his pillory on his own domain they would have
had no objection, but that he had invaded their rights in setting
up his gallows without their permission.
If the gentry, and they who ought to have known better,
set such an example, and gave their sanction to outrage and
savagery, it was only natural that the lower orders should be
quick to take their pattern by their superiors, and should be
only too ready to break and defy the law. And so it is clear
enough that they were. In a single year, the year 1285, in the
hundred of North Erpingham, cont^dning thirty-two parishes,
the catalogue of crime is so ghastly as positively to stagger one.
Without taking any account of what in those days must have
been looked upon as quite minor offenses, — such as simple theft,
sheep stealing, fraud, extortion, or harboring felons, — there
were eleven men and five women put upon their trial for bur-
glary, eight men and four women were murdered ; there were
five fatal fights, three men and two women being killed in the
frays ; and, saddest of all, there were five cases of suicide,
among them two women, one of whom hanged herself, and the
other cut her throat with a razor. We have in the roll record-
ing these horrors very minute particulars of the several cases,
and we know too that, not many months before the roll was
drawn uj), at least eleven desperate wretches had been hanged
for various offenses, and one had been torn to pieces by horses
for the crime of debasing the king's coin. It is impossible for
us to realize the hideous ferocity of such a state of society as
this ; — the women were as bad as the men, furious beldames,
dangerous as wild beasts, without pity, without shame, without
remorse ; and finding life so cheerless, so hopeless, so very, very
dark and miserable, that when there was nothing to be gained
by killing any one else they killed themselves.
Anywhere, anywhere out of the world I
Sentimental people who plaintively sigh for the good old
times will do well to ponder upon these facts. Think, twelve
poor creatures butchered in cold blood in a single year within
a circuit of ten miles from your own door 1 Two of these un-
happy victims were a couple of lonely women, apparently living
VILLAGE UFE IN ENGLAND. 888
together in their poverty, gashed and battered in the dead of
the night, and left in tiieir blood, stripped of their little all.
The motive, too, for all this horrible housebreaking and blood-
shed being a lump of cheese or a side of bacon, and the shud-
dering creatures cowering in the comer of a hovel, being too
paralyzed with terror to utter a cry, and never dreaming of
making resistance to the wild-eyed assassins, who came to slay
rather than to steal.
Let us turn from these scenes, which are too painful to
dwell on ; and, before I close, let me try and point to some
bright spots in the village life of six hundred years ago. If
the hovels of the laborer were squalid, and dirty, and dfurk, yet
there was not — no, there was not — as much difference between
them and the dwelling of the former class, the employers of
labor. Every man who had any house at all had some direct
interest in the land ; he always had some rood or two that he
could call his own ; his allotment was not larg^ but then there
were no large farmers. I cannot make out that there was any
one in Rougham who farmed as much as two hundred acres all
told. What we now understand by tenant farmers were a class
that had not yet come into existence. Where a landlord was
non-resident he farmed his estate by a bailiff, and if any one
wanted to give up an occupation for a time he let it with all
that it contained. Thus, when Alice the divorced made up her
mind in 1318 to go away from Rougham, — perhaps on a pil-
grimage — perhaps to Rome — who knows ? — she let her house
and land, and all that was upon it, live and dead stock, to her
sister Juliana for three years. The inventory included not only
the sheep and cattle, but the very hoes and pitchforks, and
sacks ; and everything, to the minutest particular, was to be
returned without damage at the end of the term, or replaced by
an equivalent. But this lady, a lady of birth and some position,
certainly did not have two hundred acres under her hands, and
would have been a very small personage indeed, side by side
with a dozen of our West Norfolk farmers to-day. The differ-
ence between the laborer and the farmer was, I think, less six
hundred years ago than it is now. Men climbed up the ladder
by steps that were more gently graduated ; there was no great
gulf fixed between the employer and the employed.
I can tell you nothing of the amusements of the people in
those days. I doubt whether they had any more amusement
VILLAGE LIFE IN ENGLAND. 886
different from our own, were perhaps not so very unlike what
we should be if our surroundings were as theirs — now that we
have come to that conclusion, if indeed we have come to it, let
me ask you all a question or two. Should we like to change
with those forefathers of ours, whose lives were passed in this
parish in the way I have attempted to describe, six hundred
years ago ? Were the former times better than these ? Has
the world grown worse as it has grown older? Has there been
no progress, but only decline ?
My friends, the people who lived in this village six hundred
years ago were living a life hugely below the level of yours.
They were more wretched in their poverty, they were incom-
parably less prosperous in their prosperity, they were worse
clad, worse fed, worse housed, worse taught, worse tended,
worse governed ; they were sufferers from loathsome diseases
which you know nothing of ; the very beasts of the field were
dwarfed and stunted in their growth, and I do not believe there
were any giants in the earth in those days. The death rate
among the children must have been tremendous. The disre-
gard of human life was so callous that we can hardly conceive
it. There was everything to harden, nothing to soften ; every-
where oppression, greed, and fierceness. Judged by our mod-
ern standards, the people of our county village were beyond
all doubt coarser, more brutal, and more wicked, than they
are.
Progress is slow, but there has been progress. The days that
are, are not what they should be ; we still want reforms, we
need much reforming ourselves ; but the former days were not
better than these, whatever these may be ; and if the next six
hundred years exhibit as decided an advance as the last six
centuries have brought about, and if your children's children
of the coming time rise as much above your level in sentiment,
material comfort, knowledge, intelligence, and refinement, as
you have risen above the level which your ancestors attained
to, though even then they will not cease to desire better things,
they will nevertheless have cause for thankfulness such as you
may well feel to-night as you look back upon what you have
escaped from, and reflect upon what you are.
VOL. IX. —25
I
886 UABION'S DEATH AND WALLACE'S VENGEA2TCE.
MARION'S DEATH AND WALLACE'S VENGEANCE.
Bt JAl^E PORTER.
(From "The Scottiab Ctuefa." j
[Janb Fobteb: An English aovelist; bom at Durham In 1778, her father
being a surgeon in the Dragoon Guards. She passed her life chiefl; in or near
Loudon. Her first and most popular novel was " Thaddeusof Warsaw" (1803),
translated into several languages; followed by "The Scottish Chiefs" (1B09),
" Doke Christian of Luneburg," etc. She died at Bristol in I860.]
Ellebslie.
Halbert, entering the room aoftly, into which Marion had
withdrawn, beheld her on her knees, before a crucifix : she waa
praying for the safety of her liusband.
" May he, O gracious Lord," cried she, " soon return to his
home. But if I am to see him here no more, oh, may it please
Thee to grant me to meet him withlu Thy arms in heayeu I "
" Hear her, blessed Son of Mary ! " ejaculated the old man.
She looked round, and, rising from her knees, demanded of
Iiim, in a kind but anxious voice, whether he had left her lord
in security.
" In tie way to it, my lady ! " answered Halbert. He
repeated all that Wallace had said at parting, and then tried to
prevail on her to go to rest. . . . She, little suspecting that
he meant to do otherwise than to sleep also, kindly wished him
repose, and retired.
Her maids, during the late terror, had dispersed, and were
Mwhere to be found ; and the men, too, after their stout resiat-
ikDco at the giites, find all disappeared; some fled, others were
iwut away prisoners t<j Lanark, while the good Hambledon was
invcrsing with their lady. Halbert, therefore, resigned Mm-
lU to await with patience the rising of the sun, when he hoped
■M of the scared domestics would return ; if not, he deter-
Inutl to go to the cotters nho lived in the depths of the glen,
1 bring snuie of tliem to supply the place of the fugitives,
« fnw, with stouter heaiis, to guard his lady.
■".•au rouaing. he sat on a stone bench in the hall, watching
' tJie appearance of that orb, whose setting beams he
M light him back with tidings of Sir William Wal-
MARION'S DEATH AND WALLACE'S VENGEANCE. 887
lace to comfort the lonely heart of his Marion. All seemed at
peace. Nothing was heard but the sighing of the trees as they
waved before the western window, which opened towards the
Lanark hills. The morning was yet gray, and the fresh air
blowing in rather chilly, Halbert rose to close the wooden shut-
ter ; at that moment his eyes were arrested by a party of armed
men in quick march down the opposite declivity. In a few
minutes more their heavy steps sounded in his ears, and he saw
the platform before the house filled with English. Alarmed at
the sight, he was retreating across the apartment, towards his
lady's room, when the great hall door was burst open by a band
of soldiers, who rushed forward and seized him.
" Tell me, dotard I " cried their leader, a man of low stature,
with gray locks, but a fierce countenance, " where is the mur-
derer ? Where is Sir William Wallace ? Speak, or the torture
shall force you ! "
Halbert shuddered, but it was for his defenseless lady, not
for himself. " My master," said he, " is far from this."
" Where ? "
"I know not."
" Thou shalt be made to know, thou hoary-headed villain ! "
cried the same violent interrogator. " Where is the assassin's
wife ? I will confront ye. Seek her out."
At that word the soldiers parted right and left, and in a
moment afterwards three of them appeared, with shouts, bring-
ing in the trembling Marion.
" Alas ! my lady ! " cried Halbert, struggling to approach
her, as with terrified apprehension she looked around her ; but
they held her fast, and he saw her led up to the merciless wretch
who had given the orders to have her summoned.
'^ Woman ! " cried he, " I am the governor of Lanark. You
now stand before the representative of the great King Edward,
and on your allegiance to him, and on the peril of your life, I
command you to answer me three questions. Where is Sir
William Wallace, the murderer of my nephew? Who is that
old Scot, for whom my nephew was slain ? He and his whole
family shall meet my vengeance ! And tell me where is that
box of treasure which your husband stole from Douglas Castle ?
Answer me these questions on your life."
Lady Wallace remained silent.
" Speak, woman 1 " demanded the governor. " If fear can-
not move you, know that I can reward as well as avenge. I
378 VILLAGE LIFE IN ENGLAND.
a country village than it is now, and if a man chose to drink bad
beer he had only himself to thank for it. There was no such
monopoly as there is now. I am inclined to think that there
were a very great many more people who sold beer in the
country parishes than sell it now, and I am sorry to say that the
beer sellers in those days had the reputation of being rather a
bad lot. It is quite certain that they were very often in trouble,
and of all the offenses punished by fine at the manor courts none
is more common than that of selling beer in false measures.
The method of cheating their customers by the beer sellers
was, we are told, exactly the contrary plan followed by our
modern publicans. Now, when a man gets into a warm corner
at the pothouse, they tell nie that John Barleycorn is apt to
serve out more drink than is good for him ; but six hundred
years ago the beer seller made his profit, or tried to make it, by
giving his customer less than he asked for. Tobacco was
quite unknown ; it was first brought into England about three
hundred years after the days we are dealing with. When a
man once sat himself down with liis pot he had nothing to do
but drink. He had no pipe to take off his attention from his
liquor. If such a portentous sight could have been seen in
those days as that of a man vomiting forth clouds of smoke
from his mouth and nostrils, the beholders would have un-
doubtedly taken to their heels and run for their lives, protest-
ing that the devil himself had appeared to them, breathing
forth fire and flames. Tea and coffee, too, were absolutely
unknown, unheard of ; and wine was the rich man's beverage,
as it is now. The fire waters of our own time — the gin and
the rum, which have wrought us all such incalculable mischief
— were not discovered then. Some little ardent spirits, known
under the name of cordials, were to be found in the better-
appointed establishments, and were kept by the lady of the
house among her simples, and on special occasions dealt out in
thimblefuls ; but the vile grog, that maddens people now, our
forefathers of six liundred years ago had never even tasted.
The absence of vegetable food for the greater part of the
year, the personal dirt of the people, the sleeping at night in
the clothes worn in the day, and other causes, made skin dis-
eases frightfully common. At the outskirts of every town
in England of any size there were crawling about emaciated
creatures covered with loathsome sores, living heaven knows
how. They were called by the common name of lepers, and
VILLAGE LIFE IN ENGLAND. 379
probably the leprosy strictly so called was awfully common.
But the children must have swarmed with vermin ; and the
itch, and the scurvy, and the ringworm, with other hideous
eruptions, must have played fearful havoc with the weak and
sickly.
As for the dress of the working classes, it was hardly dress
at all. I doubt whether the great mass of the laborers in Nor-
folk had more than a single garment — a kind of tunic leaving
the arms and legs bare, with a girdle of rope or leather round
the waist, in which a man's knife was stuck, to use sometimes
for hacking his bread, sometimes for stabbing an enemy in a
quarrel. As for any cotton goods, such as are familiar to you
all, they had never been dreamt of, and I suspect that no more
people in Norfolk wore linen habitually than now wear silk.
Money was almost inconceivably scarce. The laborer's
wages were paid partly in rations of food, partly in other
allowances, and only partly in money ; he had to take what he
could get. Even the quitrent, or what I have called the
ground rent, was frequently compounded for by the tenant
being required to find a pair of gloves, or a pound of cummin,
or some other acknowledgment in lieu of a money payment ;
and one instance occurs among the Rougham Charters of a man
buying as much as eleven and one half acres, and paying for
them partly in money and partly in barley. (In the year 1276
halfpence and farthings were coined for the first time. This
must have been a great boon to the poorer classes, and it evi-
dently was felt to be a matter of great importance.) Nothing
shows more plainly the scarcity of money than the enormous
interest that was paid for a loan. The only bankers were the
Jews ; and when a man was once in their hands he was never
likely to get out of their clutches again. But six hundred
yetirs ago the Jews had almost come to the end of their tether ;
and in the year 1290 they were driven out of the country, men,
women, and children, with unutterable barbarity, only to be
replaced by other bloodsuckers who were not a whit less mer-
cenary, perhaps, but only less pushing and successful in their
usury.
It is often said that the monasteries were the great sup-
porters of the poor, and fed them in times of scarcity. It may
be so, but I should like to see the evidence for the statement.
At present I doubt the fact, at any rate as far as Norfolk goes.
On the contrary, I am strongly impressed with the belief that
380 VILLAGE LIFE IN ENGLAND.
six hundred years ago the poor had no friends. The parsons
were needy themselves. In too many cases one clergyman
held two or three livings, took liis tithes and s[>ent them in the
town, and left a chaplain with a bare subsistence to fill his
place in the country. There was no parson's wife to drop in
and speak a kind word — no clergyman's daughter to give a
friendly nod, or teach the little ones at Sunday school — no
softening influences, no sympathy, no kindliness. What could
you expect of people with such dreary surroundings? — what
hut that which we know actually was the condition of affairs?
The records of crime and outrage in Norfolk six hundred years
ago are still preserved, and may be read by any one who knows
liow to decipher them. I had intended to examine carefully
the entries of crime for this neighborhood for the year 1286,
and to give you tlie result this evening, but I have not had
an opportunity of doing so. The work has been done for
the hundred of North Erpingham by my friend Mr. Rye, and
what is true for one part of Norfolk during any single year
is not likely to be very different from what was going on in
another.
The picture we get of the utter lawlessness of the whole
county, however, at the beginning of King Edward's reign is
quite dreadful enough. Nobody seems to have resorted to the
law to maintain a right or redress a wrong, till every other
method had been tried. Starting with the squires, if I may use
the term, and tliose well-to-do people who ought to have been
among the most law-abiding members of the community — wo
find them setting an example of violence and rapacity, bad to
rctid of. One of the most common causes of offense was when
the lord of the manor attempted to invade the rights of the
tenants of the manor by setting up a fold on the heath, or
Bruary as it was called. Wliat tlie lord was inclined to do,
tiiat the tenants would try to do also, as when in 1272 John de
Swanton set up a fold in the common fields at Billingford ;
whereupon tlie otlier tenants pulled it down, and there was a
serious disturbance, and tlie matter dragged on in the law
courts for four years and more. Or as when the Prior of Wy-
momlham impleads William de Calthorp for interfering with
his foldage at Burnham, Calthorp replying that the Prior had
no right to foldage, and that he (Calthorp) had the right to
pull the fold down. In these cases, of course, there would be a
general gatliering and a riot, for every one's interest was at
VILLAGE LIFE IN ENGLAND. 881
stake ; but it was not only when some general grievance was
felt that people in those days were ready for a row.
It really looks as if nothing was more easy than to collect a
band of people who could be let loose anywhere to work any
mischief. One man had a claim upon another for a debt, or a
piece of land, or a right which was denied — had the claim, or
fancied he had — and he seems to have had no diflBculty in get-
ting together a score or two of roughs to back him in taking
the law into his own hands. As when John de la Wade in
1270 persuaded a band of men to help him in invading the
manor of Hamon de Clere, in this very parish of Tittleshall,
seizing the corn and threshing it, and, more wonderful still,
cutting down timber and carrying it off. There are actually
two other cases of a precisely similar kind recorded this same
year, one where a gang of fellows in broad day seems to have
looted the manors of Dunton and Mileham ; the other case was
where a mob, under the leadership of three men, who are named,
entered by force into the manor of Dunliam, laid hands on a
quantity of timber fit for building purposes, and took it away
bodily! A much more serious case, however, occurred some
years after this, when two gentlemen of position in Norfolk,
with twenty-five followers, who appear to have been their
regular retainers, and a great multitude on foot and horse,
came to Little Barningham, where in the Hall there lived an
old lady, Petronilla de Gros ; they set fire to the house in five
places, dragged out the old lady, treated her with the most
brutal violence, and so worked upon her fears that they com-
pelled her to tell them where her money and jewels were, and
having seized them, I conclude that they left her to warm
herself at the smoldering ruins of her mansion.
On another occasion there was a fierce riot at Rainham.
There the manor had become divided into three portions, as we
have seen was tlie case at Rougham. One Thomas de Hauville
had one portion, and Thomas de Ingoldesthorp and Robert de
Scales held tlie other two portions. Thomas de Hauville, per-
adveiiture, felt aggrieved because some rogue had not been
whipped or tortured cruelly enough to suit his notions of salu-
tary justice, whereupon he went to the expense of erecting a
brand-new pillory, and apparently a gallows too, to strike ter-
ror into the minds of the disorderly. The other parceners of
the manor were indignant at the act, and collecting nearly sixty
of the people of Rainham, they pulled down the new pillory and
882 VILLAGE LIFE IN ENGLAND.
utterly destroyed the same. When the case came before the
judges, the defendants pleaded in effect that if Thomas de Hau-
yille had put up his pillory on his own domain they would have
had no objection, but that he had invaded their rights in setting
up his gallows without their permission.
If the gentry, and they who ought to have known better,
set such an example, and gave their sanction to outrage and
savagery, it was only natural that the lower orders should be
quick to take their pattern by their superiors, and should be
only too ready to break and defy the law. And so it is dear
enough that they were. In a single year, the year 1285, in the
hundred of North Erpingham, containing thirty-two parishes,
the catalogue of crime is so ghastly as positively to stagger one.
Without taking any account of what in those days must have
been looked upon as quite minor offenses, — such as simple theft,
sheep stealing, fraud, extortion, or harboring felons, — there
were eleven men and five women put upon their trial for bur-
glary, eight men and four women were murdered ; there were
five fatal fights, three men and two women being killed in the
frays ; and, saddest of all, there were five cases of suicide,
among them two women, one of whom hanged herself, and the
other cut her throat with a razor. We have in the roll record-
ing these horrors very minute particulars of the several cases,
and we know too that, not many months before the roll was
drawn up, at least eleven desperate wretches had been hanged
for various offenses, and one had been torn to pieces by horses
for the crime of debasing the king's coin. It is impossible for
us to realize the hideous ferocity of such a state of society as
this ; — the women were as bad Jis the men, furious beldames,
dangerous as wild beasts, without pity, without shame, without
remorse ; and finding life so cheerless, so hopeless, so very, very
dark and miserable, that when there was nothing to be gained
by killing any one else they killed themselves.
Anywhere, anywhere out of the world I
Sentimental people who plaintively sigh for the good old
times will do well to ponder upon these facts. Think, twelve
poor creatures butchered in cold blood in a single year within
a circuit of ten miles from your own door 1 Two of these un-
happy victims were a couple of lonely women, apparently living
VILLAGE LIFE IN ENGLAND. 888
together in their poverty, gashed and battered in the dead of
the night, and left in their blood, stripped of their little all.
The motive, too, for all this horrible housebreaking and blood-
shed being a lump of cheese or a side of bacon, and the shud-
dering creatures cowering in the corner of a hovel, being too
paralyzed with terror to utter a cry, and never dreaming of
making resistance to the wild-eyed assassins, who came to slay
rather than to steal.
Let us turn from these scenes, which are too painful to
dwell on ; and, before I close, let me try and point to some
bright spots in the village life of six hundred years ago. If
the hovels of the laborer were squalid, and dirty, and dark, yet
there was not — no, there was not — as much difference between
them and the dwelling of the former class, the employers of
labor. Every man who had any house at all had some direct
interest in the land ; he always had some rood or two that he
could call his own ; his allotment was not large, but then there
were no large farmers. I cannot make out that there was any
one in Rougham who farmed as much as two hundred acres all
told. What we now understand by tenant farmers were a class
that had not yet come into existence. Where a landlord was
non-resident he farmed his estate by a bailiff, and if any one
wanted to give up an occupation for a time he let it with all
that it contained. Thus, when Alice the divorced made up her
mind in 1318 to go away from Rougham, — perhaps on a pil-
grimage — perhaps to Rome — who knows ? — she let her house
and land, and all that was upon it, live and dead stock, to her
sister Juliana for three years. The inventory included not only
the sheep and cattle, but the very hoes and pitchforks, and
sacks; and everything, to the minutest particular, was to be
returned without damage at the end of the term, or replaced by
an equivalent. But this lady, a lady of birth and some position,
certainly did not have two hundred acres under her hands, and
would have been a very small personage indeed, side by side
witli a dozen of our West Norfolk farmers to-day. The differ-
ence between the laborer and the farmer was, I think, less six
hundred years ago than it is now. Men climbed up the ladder
by steps that were more gently graduated ; there was no great
gulf fixed between the employer and the employed.
I can tell you nothing of the amusements of the people in
those days. I doubt whether they had any more amusement
884 VILLAGE LIFE IN ENGLAND.
than the swine or the cows had. Looking after the fowls or
the geese, hunting for the hen's nest in the furze brake, and dig-
ging out a fox or a badger, gave them an hour's excitement or
interest now and again. Now and then a wandering minstrel
came by, playing upon his rude instrument, and now and then
somebody would come out from Lynn, or Yarmouth, or Nor-
wich, with some new batch of songs, for the most part scurril-
ous and coarse, and listened to much less for the sake of the
music than for the words. Nor were books so rare as has been
asserted. There were even storybooks in some houses, as
where John Senekworth, bailiff for Merton College, at Gamlin-
gay in Cambridgeshire, possessed, when he died in 1814, three
books of romance ; but then he was a thriving yeoman, with
carpets in his house, or hangings for the walls.
There was a great deal more coming and going in the
country villages than there is now, a great deal more to talk
about, a great deal more doing. The courts of the manor were
hehl periodically, and the free tenants were bound to attend
and carry on a large amount of petty business. Then there
were the periodical visitations by the Archdeacon and the
Rural Dean, and now and then more august personages might
be seen with a host of mounted followers riding along the roads.
The Bishop of Norwieli was always on the move when he was
in his diocese ; his most favorite places of residence were
North Elmham and Gaywood ; at both of these places he had a
palace and a park ; that meant that there were deer there and
hunting, and all the good and evil that seems to be inseparable
from haunches of venison. Nay, at intervals, even the Arch-
bishop of Canterbury himself, the second man in the kingdom,
came down to hold a visitation in Norfolk, and exactly 602
years ago the great Archbishop Peckham spent some time in
the county, and though I do not think he came near Rougham
or Tittleshall, I think it not improbable that his coming may
have had some influence in brinc^ing about the separation be-
tween Peter Ronia3'n and Matilda de Cringleford, and the
divorce of poor Alice from John of Tliyrsford. . . .
And tliese were the days of old. But now that we have
looked back upon them as they appear through the mists of
centuries, the distance distorting some things, obscuring others,
but leaving upon us, on the whole, an impression that, after all,
these men and women of the past, whose circumstances were so
VILLAGE LIFE IN ENGLAND. 886
different from our own, were perhaps not so very unlike what
we should be if our surroundings were as theirs — now that we
have come to that conclusion, if indeed we have come to it, let
me ask you all a (juestion or two. Should we like to change
with those forefathers of ours, whose lives were passed in this
parish in the way I have attempted to describe, six hundred
years ago ? Were the former times better than these ? Has
the world grown worse as it lias grown older ? Has there been
no progress, but only decline ?
My friends, the people who lived in this village six hundred
years ago were living a life hugely below the level of yours.
They were more wretched in their poverty, they were incom-
])arably less prosi)erous in their prosperity, they were worse
clad, worse fed, worse housed, worse taught, worse tended,
worse governed ; they were sufferers from loathsome diseases
which you know notliing of ; the very beasts of the field were
dwarfed and stunted in their g^o^\'th, and I do not believe there
were any giants in the earth in those days. The death rate
amonix the children must have been tremendous. The disre-
gard of human life was so callous that wo ciin hardly conceive
it. There was everything to harden, nothing to soften; every-
where oppression, greed, and lierceness. Judged by our mod-
ern standards, the people of our county village were beyond
all doubt coarser, more brutal, and more wicked, than they
are.
IVogress is slow, but there has been progress. The days that
are, are not what they should be ; we still want reforms, we
need much reforming ourselves; but the former da)*8 were not
better than thes(», whatever these may l)e ; and if the next six
hundre<l vears exhibit as decided an advance as the last six
centuries have brought about, and if your children's children
of the coming time rise as much above your level in sentiment,
material comfort, knowledge, intelligence, and refinement, as
you havt? risen above the level which your ancestors attained
to, though even then they will not cease to desire better things,
they will ncvertlieless have cause for thankfulness such as you
may well feel to-night as you look back upon what you have
escaped from, and reflect upon what you are.
VOL. IX. — 25
886 MARION'S DEATH AND WALLACE'S VENGEANCE.
MARION'S DEATH AND WALLACE'S VENGEANCE.
Bt jane PORTER.
(From ''The Scottish Chieik**;
[Jans Poster : An English novelist ; bom at Durham in 1776, her father
being a surgeon in the Dragoon Guards. She passed her life cliiefly in or near
London. Her first and most popular novel was *' Thaddeus of Warsaw '* (1808),
translated into several languages; followed by ''The Scottish Chiefs*' (1809),
" Duke Christian of Luneburg,*' etc. She died at Bristol in I860.]
Ellebslie.
Halbebt, entering the room softly, into which Marion had
withdrawn, beheld her on her knees, before a crucifix : she was
praying for the safety of her husband.
" May he, O gracious Lord," cried she, " soon return to his
home. But if I am to see him here no more, oh, may it please
Thee to grant me to meet him within Thy arms in heaven I "
" Hear her, blessed Son of Mary ! " ejaculated the old man.
She looked round, and, rising from her knees, demanded of
him, in a kind but anxious voice, whether he had left her lord
in security.
" In the way to it, my lady ! " answered Halbert. He
repeated all that Wallace had said at parting, and then tried to
prevail on her to go to rest. . . . She, little suspecting that
he meant to do otherwise than to sleep also, kindly wished him
repose, and retired.
Her maids, during the late terror, had dispersed, and were
nowhere to be found ; and the men, too, after their stout resist-
ance at the gates, had all disappeared ; some fled, others were
sent away prisoners to Lanark, while the good Hambledon was
conversing with their lady. Halbert, therefore, resigned him-
self to await with patience the rising of the sun, when he hoped
some of the scared domestics would return ; if not, he deter-
mined to go to the cotters who lived in the depths of the glen,
and bring some of them to supply the place of the fugitives,
and a few, with stouter hearts, to guard his lady.
Thus musing, he sat on a stone bench in the hall, watching
anxiously the appearance of that orb, whose setting beams he
hoped would light him back with tidings of Sir William Wal-
MARION'S DEATH AND WALLACE'S VENGEANCE. 387
lace to comfort the lonely heart of his Marion. All seemed at
peace. Nothing was heard but the sighing of the trees as they
waved before the western window, which opened towards the
Lanark hills. The morning was yet gray, and the fresh air
blowing in rather chilly, Halbert rose to close the wooden shut-
ter ; at that moment his eyes were arrested by a party of armed
men in quick march do^vn the opposite declivity. In a few
minutes more their heavy steps sounded in his ears, and he saw
the platform before the house filled with English. Alarmed at
the sight, he was retreating across the apartment, towards his
lady's room, when the great hall door was burst open by a band
of soldiers, who rushed forward and seized him.
*' Tell me, dotard I " cried their leader, a man of low stature,
with gray locks, but a fierce countenance, " where is the mur-
derer ? Where is Sir William Wallace ? Speak, or the torture
shall force you ! "
Halbert shuddered, but it was for his defenseless lady, not
for himself. " My master," said he, " is far from this."
" Where ? "
"I know not."
" Thou shalt be made to know, thou hoary-headed villain ! "
cried the same violent interrogator. " Where is the assassin's
wife ? I will confront ye. Seek her out."
At that word the soldiers parted right and left, and in a
moment afterwards three of them appeared, with shouts, bring-
ing in the trembling Marion.
" Alas ! my lady ! " cried Halbert, struggling to approach
her, as with terrified apprehension she looked aroiind her ; but
thi»y held her fast, and he saw her led up to the merciless wretch
who had given the orders to have her summoned.
'*' Woman ! " cried he, " I am the governor of Lanark. You
now jstand before the rei)resentative of the great King Edward,
and on your allegiance to him, and on the peril of your life, I
command you to answer me three questions. Where is Sir
William Wallace, the murderer of my nephew? Who is that
old Scot, for whom my nephew was slain ? He and his whole
family shall meet my vengeance ! And tell me where is that
box of treasure which your husband stole from Douglas Castle ?
Answer me these questions on your life."
Lady Wallace remained silent.
" Speak, woman 1 " demanded the governor. " If fear can-
not move you, know that I can reward as well as avenge. I
888 MARION'S DEATH AND WALLACE'S VENGEANCE.
will endow you richly, if you declare the truth. If you persiBt
to refuse, you die."
" Then I die," replied she, scarcely opening her half-closed
eyes, as she leaned, fainting and motionless, against the soldier
who held her.
" What 1 " cried the governor, stifling his rage, in hopes to
gain by persuasion on a spirit he found threats could not in-
timidate ; " can so gentle a lady reject the favor of England ;
large grants in this country, and perhaps a fine English knight
for a husband, when you might have all for the trilling service
of giving up a traitor to his liege lord, and confessing where
his robberies lie concealed ? Speak, fair dame ; give me this
information, and the lands of the wounded chieftain whom
Wallace brought here, with the hand of the handsome Sir Gil-
bert Hambledon, shall bo your reward, ilich, and a beauty in
Edward's court ! Lady, can you now refuse to purchase all, by
declaring the hiding place of the traitor Wallace ? "
" It is easier to die ! "
" Fool I " cried Ileselrigge, thriven from his assumed temper
by her steady denial. "• What ! is it easier for these dainty
limbs to be hacked to pieces by m}' soldiers' axes ? Is it easier
for that fair bosom to be trodden underfoot by my horse's
hoofs, and for that beauteous head of thine to decorate my
lance ? Is all this easier than to tell me where to find a mur-
derer and his gold ? "
Lady Wallace shuddered: she stretched her hands to
heaven.
" Speak once for all I " cried the enraged governor, drawing
his sword ; " I am no waxen-hearted Hambledon, to be cajoled
by your beauty. Declare where Wallace is concealed, or dread
my vengeance."
The horrid steel gleamed across the eyes of the unhappy
Marion ; unable to sustain herself, she sunk on the ground.
" Kneel not to me for mercy I " cried the fierce wretch ;
"I grant none, unless you confess your husband's hiding
place."
A momentary strength darted from the heart of Lady Wal-
lace to her voice. " I kneel to heaven alone, and may it ever
preserve my Wallace from the fangs of Edward and his
tyrants ! "
" Blasphemous wretch 1 " cried the infuriate Heselrigge ;
and in that moment he plunged his sword into her defenseless
MARION'S DEATH AND WALLACE'S VENGEANCE. 889
breiist. Ilalbert, who had all this time been held back by the
soldiers, could not believe that the fierce governor would per-
petrate the horrid deed he threatened ; but seeing it done, with
a giant's strength and a terrible cry he burst from the hands
wliich held him, and had thrown himself on the bleeding Marion,
bufore her murderer could strike his second blow. However,
it fell, and pierced through the neck of the faithful servant
before it reached her heart. She opened her dying eyes, and
seeing who it was that would have shielded her life, just articu-
lated, " Halbert I my Wallace — to God " and with the last
unfinished sentence her pure soul took its flight to regions of
eternal peace.
The good old man's heart almost burst, when he felt that
before-heaving bosom now motionless ; and groaning with grief,
and fainting with loss of blood, he lay senseless on her body.
A terrific stillness was now in the hall. Not a man spoke ;
all stood looking on each other, with a stern horror marking
each pale countenance. Heselrigge, dropping his blood-stained
sword on the ground, perceived by the behavior of his men that
he had gone too far, and fearful of arousing the indignation of
awakened humanity, to some act against himself, he addressed
the soldiers in an unusual accent of condescension: ^^ My
friends," said he, '* we will now return to Lanark : to-morrow
you may come back, for I reward your services of this night
with the plunder of Ellerslie."
'*May a curse light on him who carries a stick from its
L,^round I " exclaimed a veteran, from the further end of the
hall. *' Amen ! " murmured all tlie soldiers, with one consent ;
and falling back, they disappeared, one by one, out of the great
door, leaving Heselrigge alone with the soldier, who stood
leaning on his sword looking on the murdered lady.
'* (jrimsby, why stand you there ? " demanded Heselrigge ;
** follow me."
" Never," returned the soldier.
" What I " exclaimed the governor, momentarily forgetting
his panic, *' dare you speak thus to your commander ? March
on before me this instant, or expect to be treated as a rebel."
*' I march at your command no more," replied the veteran,
eying him resolutely: "the moment you perpetrated this
blooily deed, you l>ecame unworthy the name of man ; and I
should disgrace my own manhood, were I ever again to obey
the word of such a monster ! "
890 MARION'S DEATH AND WALLACE'S VENGEANCE.
" Villain ! " cried the enraged Heselrigge, " you shall die for
this!"
"That may be," answered Grimsby, "by the hands of some
tyrant like yourself ; but no brave man, not the royal Edward,
would do otherwise than acquit his soldier for refusing obedi-
ence to the murderer of an innocent woman. It was not so he
treated the wives and daughters of the slaughtered Saracens
when I followed his banners over the fields of Palestine 1 "
" Thou canting miscreant ! " cried Heselrigge, springing on
him suddenly, and aiming his dagger at his breast. But the
soldier arrested the weapon, and at the same instant closing
upon the assassin, with a turn of his foot threw him to the
ground. Heselrigge, as he lay prostrate, seeing his dagger in
his adversary's hand, with the most dastardly promises, im-
plored for life.
" Monster ! " cried the soldier, " I would not pollute my
honest hands with such unnatural blood. Neither, though thy
hand has been lifted against my life, would I willingly take
thine. It is not rebellion against my commander that actuates
me, but hatred of the vilest of murderers. I go far from you,
or your power ; but if you forswear your voluntary oath, and
attempt to seek me out for vengeance, remember it is a soldier
of the cross you pursue, and a dire retribution shall be de-
manded by Heaven, at a moment you cannot avoid, and with a
horror commensurate with your crimes."
There was a solemnity and determination in the voice and
manner of the soldier that paralyzed the intimidated soul of the
governor ; he trembled violently, and repeating his oath of
leaving Grimsby unmolested, at last obtained his permission to
return to Lanark. The men, in obedience to the conscience-
struck orders of their commander, had mounted their horses,
and were now far out of sight. Heselrigge's charger was still
in the courtyard ; he was hurrying towards it, but the soldier,
with a prudent suspicion, called out, " Stop, sir ! you must walk
to Lanark. The cruel are generally false : I cannot trust your
word, should you have the power to break it. Leave this
horse here — to-morrow you may send for it, I shall then be far
away."
Heselrigge saw that remonstrance would be unavailing;
and shaking with impotent rage, he turned into the path
which, after five weary miles, would lead him once more to his
citadel.
MARION'S DEATH AND WALLACE'S VENGEANCE. 891
From the moment the soldier's manly spirit had dared to
deliver its abhorrence of Lady Wallace's murder, he was aware
that his life would no longer be safe within reach of the machi-
nations of Heselrigge ; and determined, alike by detestation of
him, and regard for his own preservation, he resolved to take
shelter in the mountains, till he could have an opportunity of
going beyond sea to join his king's troops in the Guienne wars.
Full of these thoughts, he returned into the hall. As he
approached the bleeding group on the floor, he perceived it
move; hoping that perhaps the unhappy lady might not be
dead, he drew near; but, alas! as he bent to examine, he
touched her hand and found it quite cold. The blood which
had streamed from the now exhausted heart, lay congealed
upon her arms and bosom. Grimsby shuddered. Again he
saw her move ; but it was not with her own life ; the recover-
ing senses of her faithful servant, as his arms clung aroimd the
body, had disturbed the remains of her who would wake no
more.
On seeing that existence yet struggled in one of these
blameless victims, Grimsby did his utmost to revive the old
man. He raised him from the ground, and poured some strong
liquor he had in a flask into his mouth. Halbert breathed freer ;
and his kind surgeon, with the venerable harper's own plaid,
bound up the wound in his neck. Halbert opened his eyes.
When he flxed them on the rough features and English helmet
of the soldier, he closed them again with a deep groan.
"My honest Scot," said Grimsby, "trust in me. I am a
man like yourself ; and though a Southron, am no enemy to
age and helplessness."
The harper took courage at these words : he again looked
at the soldier ; but suddenly recollecting what had passed, he
turned his eyes towards the body of his mistress, on which the
beams of the now rising sun were shining. He started up,
and staggering towards her, would have fallen, had not Grimsby
sui)ported him. " O what a sight is this ! " cried he, wringing
his hands. " My lady 1 my lovely lady ! see how low she lies
who was once the delight of all eyes, the comforter of all
hearts." The old man's sobs suffocated him. The veteran
turned away his face ; a tear dropped upon his hand. " Ac-
cursed Heselrigge," ejaculated he, "thy fate must come I "
" If there be a man's heart in all Scotland, it is not far dis-
tant ! " cried Halbert. " My master lives, and will avenge this
892 MARION'S DEATH AND WALLACE'S VENGEANCE.
murder. You weep, soldier, and you will not betray what has
now escaped me."
^^ I have fought in Palestine," returned he, ^^ and a soldier
of the cross betrays none who trust him. Saint Mary preserve
your master and conduct you safely to him. We must both
hasten hence. Heselriggc will surely send in pursuit of me.
He is too vile to forgive the truth I have spoken to him ; and
should I fall into his power, death is the best I could expect at
his hands. Let me assist you to put this poor lady's remains into
some decent place ; and then, my honest Scot, we must separate."
Halbert, at these words, threw himself upon the bosom of
his mistress, and wept with loud lamentations over her. In
vain he attempted to raise lier in his feeble arms. " I have car-
ried thee scores of times in thy IJooraing infancy," cried he ;
" and now must I bear thee to thy grave ? I had hoped that
my eyes would have been closed by this dear hand." As he
spoke, he pressed her cold hand to his lips with such convul-
sive sobs that the soldier, fearing he would expire in the agony
of his sorrow, took him almost motionless from the dead body,
and exliorted him to suppress such self -destroying grief for the
sake of his master. Halbert gradually revived, and listening
to him, cast a wishful look on the lifeless Marion.
" There sleei)S the pride and hope of Elloi*slie, the mother
with her cliild ! O my master, my widowed master," cried he,
" what ^vill comfort thee ! "
" Now I am alone in this once happy spot. Not a voice, not
a sound. Oh ! Wallace I " cried he, throwing up his venerable
arms, " thy house is left unto thee desolate, and I am to be the
fatal messenger." With the last words he struck into a deep
ravine whicli led to the remotest solitudes of the glen, and pur-
sued his way in dreadful silence. No human face of Scot or
English cheered or scared him as he passed along. The tumult
of the preceding night, by dispersing the servants of EUerslie,
had so alarmed the [)oor cottagers, that with one accord they
fled to their kindred on the hills, amid those fastnesses of nature,
to await tidings from the valley, of when all should be still, and
they might return in peace. Halbert looked to the right and
to the left ; no smoke, curling its gray mist from behind the
intersecting rocks, reminded him of the gladsome morning hour,
or invited him to tiike a moment's rest from his grievous jour-
MARION'S DEATH AND WALLACE'S VENGEANCE. 398
ney. All was lonely and comfortless ; and sighing bitterly over
the wide devastation, he concealed the fatal sword and the horn
under his cloak, and with a staff which he broke from a withered
tree, took his way down the winding craigs. Many a pointed
flint pierced his aged feet, while exploring the almost trackless
patlis, which by their direction he hoped would lead him at
length to the deep caves of Corie Lynn.
CoRiE Lynn.
After having traversed many a weary rood of, to him, before
untrodden ground, the venerable minstrel of the house of
Wallace, exhausted by fatigue, sat down on the declivity of a
steep craig. The burning beams of the midday sun now beat
upon the rocks, but the overshadowing foliage afforded him
shelter ; and a few berries from the brambles, which knit them-
selves over the path he had yet to explore, with a draught of
water from a friendly burn, offered themselves to revive his
enfeebled limbs. Insufficient as they api>eared, he took them,
blessing Heaven for sending even these ; and strengthened by
half an hour's rest, again he grasped his staff to pursue his
way.
After breaking a passage through the entangled shrubs tliat
grew across the only possible footing in this solitary wilder-
ness, he went along the side of the expanding stream, which
at every turning of the rocks increased in depth and violence.
The rills from above, and other mountain brooks, pouring from
abrupt falls down the craigs, covered him with spray, and
intercepted his ptissage. Finding it impracticable to proceed
through the rushing torrent of a cataract, whose distant roar-
ings might have intimidated even a younger adventurer, he
turned from its tumbling waters which burst from his sight,
and crept on his hands and knees up the opposite acclivity,
catching by the fern and other weeds to stay him from falling
back into the flood below. Prodigious craggy heights towered
above his liead as he ascended ; while the rolling clouds which
canopied their summits, seemed descending to ^vrap him in their
" floecy skirts " ; or the projecting rocks bending over the
waters of the glen, left him only a narrow shelf in the cliff,
ah)ng which he crept till it brought him to the mouth of a
cavern.
He must either enter it or return the way he came, or
894 MARION'S DEATH AND WALLACE'S VENGEANCE.
attempt the descent of overhanging precipices which nothing
could surmount but the pinions of their native birds. Above
him was the mountain. Retread his footsteps until he had
seen his beloved master, he was resolved not to do — to perish
in these glens would be more tolerable to him ; for while he
moved forward, hope, even in the arms of death, would cheer
him with the whisper that he was in tJ^e path of duty. He there-
fore entered the cavity, and passing on, soon perceived an
aperture, through which emerging on the other side, he found
himself again on the margin of the river. Having attained a
wider bed, it left him a still narrower causeway, to perform the
remainder of his journey.
Huge masses of rock, canopied with a thick umbrage of
firs, beech, and weeping birch, closed over the glen and almost
excluded the light of day. But more anxious, as he calculated
by the increased rai)iclity of the stream he must now be
approaching the great fall near his master's concealment,
Halbert redoubled his speed. But an unlooked-for obstacle
bafHed his progress. A growing gloom he had not observed
in the sky-excluded valley, having entirely overspread the
heavens, at this moment suddenly discharged itself, amidst
peals of thunder, in heavy floods of rain upon his head.
Fearful of being overwhelmed by the streams, which now
on all sides crossed his path, he kept upon the edge of the
river, to be as far as possible from the influence of their vio-
lence. And thus he proceeded, slowly and with trepidation,
through numerous defiles, and under the plimge of many a
mountain torrent, till the augmented storm of a world of waters
dashing from side to side, and boiling up with the noise and
fury of the contending elements above, told him he was indeed
not far from the fall of Corie Lynn.
The spray was spread in so thick a mist over the glen, he
knew not how to advance. A step further might be on the
firm earth, but more probably illusive, and dash him into the
roaring Lynn, where he would be ingulfed at once in its furious
wliirli)ool. He paused and looked around. The rain had
ceased, but the thunder still rolled at a distance, and echoed
tremendously from the surrounding rocks. Halbert shook his
gray locks, streaming with wet, and looked towards the sun,
now gilding with its last rays the vjist sheets of falling water.
" This is thine hour, my master ! " exclaimed the old man ;
" and surely I am too near the Lynn to be far from thee ! "
MARION'S DEATH AND WALLACES VENGEANCE. 895
With these words he raised the pipe that hung at his breast
and blew three strains of the appointed air. In former days
it used to call from her bower that " fair star of evening," the
beauteous Marion, now departed forever into her native heaven.
The notes trembled as his agitated breath breathed them into
the instrument ; but feeble as they were, and though the roar
of the cataract might have prevented their reaching a less
attentive ear than that of Wallace, yet he sprang from the
innermost recess under the fall, and dashing through its rushing
waters, the next instant was at the side of Halbert.
" Faithful creature ! " cried he, catching him in his arms,
with all the joy of that moment which ends the anxious wish
to learn tidings of what is dearest in the world, " how fares my
Marion ? "
" I am weary," cried the heart-stricken old man : " take
me within your sanctuary, and I will tell you all."
Wallace perceived that his time-worn servant was indeed
exhausted ; and knowing the toils and hazards of the perilous
track he must have passed over in his way to this fearful soli-
tude ; also remembering how, as he sat in his shelter, he had
himself dreaded the effects of the storm upon so aged a trav-
eler, he no longer wondered at the dispirited tone of his greet-
ing, and readily accounted for the pale countenance and tremulous
step which at first had excited his alarm.
Giving the old man his hand, he led him with caution to
the brink of the Lynn ; and then folding him in his arms,
(lashed with him through the tumbling water into the cavern
he had chosen for his asylum. Halbert sunk against its rocky
side, and putting forth his hand to catch some of the water as
it fell, drew a few drops to his parched lips, and swallowed
them. After this light refreshment, he breathed a little and
turned his eyes upon his anxious master.
'"Are you sufficiently recovered, Halbert, to tell me how
you left my dearest Marion ? "
Halbert dreaded to see the animated light which now
clieered him from the eyes of his master, overclouded with the
Cimmerian horrors his story must unfold : he evaded the direct
reply : '" I saw your guest in safety ; I saw him and the iron
box on their way to Bothwell."
'* What I " inquired Wallace, " were we mistaken ? was not
the earl dead when we looked into the well ? " Halbert replied
in the negative, and was proceeding with a circumstaxitial
396 MARION'S DEATH AND WALLACE'S VENGEANCE.
account of his recovery and his departure, when Wallace inter-
rupted him.
" But what of my wife, Halbert ? why tell me of others
before of her? She whose safety and remembrance are now
my sole comfort ? "
" Oh, my dear lord ! " cried IIall)ert, throwing himself on
his knees in a paroxysm of mentiil agony, " slie remembers you
where best her prayers can te heard. She kneels for her
beloved Wallace, before the throne of God ! "
" Halbert ! " cried Sir William, in a low and fearful voice,
" what would you say ? My Marion — speak I tell me in one
word she lives 1 "
" In heaven ! '*
At this confirmation of a sudden terror, imbibed from the
ambiguous words of Halbert, and which his fond heart would
not allow him to acknowledge to himself, Wallace covered his
face with his hands and fell with a deep groan against the side
of the cavern. The horrid idea of premature maternal pains,
occasioned by anguish for him ; of her consequent death,
involving perhaps that of her infant, struck liim to the soul ;
a mist seemed passing over his eyes ; life was receding ; and
gladly did he believe he felt his spirit on the eve of joining
hers.
In having declared that the idol of his master's heart no
longer existed for him in this world, Halbert thought he had
revealed the worst, and he went on. " Her latest breath was
,rfpent in prayer for j'ou. ' My Wallace ' were the last words
her angel spirit uttered as it issued from her bleeding wounds."
The cry that burst from the heart of Wallace, as he started
on his feet at this horrible disclosure, seemed to pierce through
all the recesses of the glen, and with an instantaneous and dis-
mal return was rcecliocd from rock to rock. Halbert threw
his arms round his master's knees. The frantic blaze of his
eye struck him with affright. '* Hear me, my lord ; for the
Stake of your wife, now an angel liovering near you, hear what
I have to Siiy."
Wallace looked around with a wild countenance. " My
Marion near me I Blessed spirit ! Oh, my murdered wife !
my unlx)rn babe ! Who made those wounds?" cried he, catch-
ing Hallx^rt's arm with a tremendous though unconscious grasp ;
" tell me who had the heart to aim a blow at that angel's life ? "
" The governor of Lanark," replied Halbert.
MARION'S DEATH AND WALLACE'S VENGEANCE. 897
"How? for what?" demanded Wallace, with the terrific
glare of madness shooting from his eyes. " My wife I my wife '
what had she done ? "
"He came at the head of a band of ruffians, and seizing my
lady, commanded her on the peril of her life, to declare where
you and the earl of Mar and the box of treasure were concealed.
My lady i)ersi8ted to refuse him information, and in a deadly
rage he plunged his sword into her breast." Wallace clenched
his hands over his face, and Halbert went on. " Before he
aimed a second blow, I had broken from the men who held me,
and thrown myself on her bosom ; but all could not save her :
the villain's sword had penetrated her heart • "
" Great God I " exclaimed Wallace, " dost thou hear this
murder ? " His liands were stretched towards heaven ; then
fallin^^ on his knees, with his eyes fixed, " Give me power.
Almighty Judge!" cried he, "to assert thy justice 1 Let me
avenge this angel's blood, and then take me to thy mercy I "
" My gracious miuster," cried Halbert, seeing him rise with
a stern composure, " here is the fatal sword : the blood on it is
sacred, and I brought it to you."
Wallace took it in his hand. He gazed at it, touched it,
and kissed it frantically. The blade was hardly yet dry, and
the ensanguined hue came off upon the pressure. " Marion !
Marion I " cried he, " is it thine ? Does thy blood stain my
lip?" He j)aused for a moment, leaning his burning forehead
against the fattil blade ; then looking up with a terrific smile,
" Heloved of my soul ! never shall tliis sword leave my liand
till it has drunk the lifeblood of thy murderer."
'- What is it you intend, my lord ? " cried Halbert, viewing
with increiused alarm the resolute ferocity which now, blazing
from every j)art of his countenance, seemed to dilate his figure
with more than mortal daring. "What can you do? Your
single arm "
'* I am not single — God is with me. I am his avenger.
Now tremble, tyranny ! I come to hurl thee down 1 " At the
word lie sprang from the cavern's mouth, and had already
reached the topmost cliff when the piteous cries of Halbert
I)enetrated his ear ; they recalled him to recollection, and
returning to his faithful servant, he tried to soothe his fears,
and spoke in a composed though determined tone. "I will
lead you from this solitude to the mountains, where the shep-
herds of EUerslie are tending their flocks. With them you
898 MARION'S DEATH AND WALLACE'S VENGEANCE.
will find a refuge, till you have strength to reach Bothwell
Castle. Lord Mar will protect you for my sake."
Halbert now remembered the bugle, and putting it into his
master's hand, with its accompanying message, asked for some
testimony in return, that the earl miglit know he had delivered
it safely. " Even a lock of your precious hair, my beloved
master, will be sufficient."
" Thou shalt have it, severed from my head by this accursed
steel," answered Wallace, taking off his bonnet, and letting his
amber locks fall in tresses on his shoulders. Halbert burst into
a fresh Hood of tears, for he remembered how often it had been
the delight of Marion to comb these bright tresses and to twist
them round lier ivory fingers. Wallace looked up as the old
man's sobs became audible, and read his thoughts : " It will
never be again, Halbert," cried he, and with a firm grasp of the
sword he cut off a large handful of his hair.
" Marion, thy blood hath marked it ! " exclaimed he ; " and
every hair on my head shall be dyed of the same hue, before
this sword is sheathed upon thy murderers. Here, Halbert,"
continued he, knotting it together, " take this to the earl of
Mar : it is all, most likely, he will ever see again of William
Wallace. Should I fall, tell him to look on that, and in my
wrongs read the future miseries of Scotland, and remember
that God armeth a patriot's hand. Let him act on that convic-
tion, and Scotland may yet be free."
Halbert placed the lock in his Ix^som, but again repeated his
entreaties, that his master would accompany him to Bothwell
Castle. He urged the consolation he would meet from the
good earFs friendship.
'*If he indeed regard me," returned Wallace, "for my sake
let him cherish you. My consolations must come from a higher
hand : I go where it directs. If I live, you shall see me again,
but twilight approaches — we must away. The sun must not
rise again upon Heselrigge."
Halbert now followed the rapid steps of Wallace, who,
assisting the feeble limbs of his faithful servant, drew him up
the precipitous side of the Lynn, and then leaping from rock
to rock, awaited with impatience the slower advances of the
poor old hari)er, as he crept round a circuit of overhanging
cliffs, to join him on the summit of the craigs.
Together they struck into the most inaccessible defiles of
the mountains^ and proceeded, till on discerning smoke whiten'
MARION'S DEATH AND WALLACE'S VENGEANCE. 899
ing with its ascending curls the black sides of the impending
rocks, Wallace saw himself near the object of his search. He
sprang on a high cliff projecting over this mountain valley, and
blowing his bugle with a few notes of the well-known pibroch of
Lanarkshire, was answered by the reverberations of a thousand
echoes.
At the loved sounds which had not dared to visit their ears
since the Scottish standard was lowered to Edward, the hills
seemed teeming with life. Men rushed from their fastnesses,
and women with their babes eagerly followed, to see whence
sprung a summons so dear to every Scottish heart. Wallace
stood on the cliff, like the newly aroused genius of his country :
his long plaid floated afar, and his glittering hair, streaming on
the blast, seemed to mingle with the golden fires which shot
from the heavens. Wallace raised his eyes — a clash as of the
tumult of contending armies filled the sky, and flames, and
flashing steel, and the horrid red of battle, streamed from the
clouds upon the hills.
" Scotsmen ! " cried Wallace, waving the fatal sword, which
blazed in the glare of these northern lights, like a flaming
brand, " behold how the heavens cry aloud to you ! I come,
in the midst of their fires, to call you to vengeance. I come in
the name of all ye hold dear, of the wives of your bosoms, and
the children in their arms, to tell you the poniard of England
is unsheathed — innocence and age and infancy fall before it.
With this sword, last night, did Heselrigge, the English tyrant
of Lanark, break into my house, and murder my wife ! "
The shriek of horror that burst from every mouth, inter-
rupted Wallace. " Vengeance ! vengeance ! " was the cry of
the men, wliile tumultuous lamentations for the " sweet Lady
of Ellerslie " filled the air from the women.
Wallace sprang from the cliff into the midst of his brave
countrymen. " Follow me, then, to strike the mortal blow."
*' Lead on ! " cried a vigorous old man. " I drew this stout
claymore last in the battle of Largs. Life and Alexander was
then the word of victory : now, ye accursed Southrons, ye shall
meet the slogan of Death and Lady Marian.^''
" Death and Lady Marion 1 " was echoed with shouts from
mouth to mouth. Every sword was drawn; and those hardy
peasants who owned none, seizing the instruments of pasturage,
armed themselves with wolf spears, pickaxes, forks, and scythes.
Sixty resolute men now arranged themselves around their
400 MARION'S DEATH AND WALLACE'S VENGEANCE.
chief, Wallace, whose widowed heart turned icy cold at the
dreadful Hlogan of his Marion's name, more fiercely grasped his
sword, and murmured to himself, " From this hour may Scot-
land date her liberty, or Wallace return no more ! My faith-
ful friends," cried he, turning to his men, and placing his
plumed bonnet on his head, "let the spirits of your fathers
inspire your souls ; ye go to assert that freedom for which they
died. Before the moon sets, the tyrant of Lanark must fall in
blood."
" Death and Lady Marion ! " was the pealing answer that
echoed from the hills.
Wallace again sprang on the cliffs. His brave peasants
followed him ; and taking their rapid march by a near cut
through a hitherto imexplored defile of the Cartlane Craigs,
leaping chasms, and climbing perpendicular rocks, they suffered
no obstacles to impede their steps, while thus rushing onward
like lions to their prey.
Lanark Castle.
The women, and the men whom age withheld from so des-
perate an enterprise, now thronged around Halbert, to ask a
circumstantial account of the disaster which had filled all with
so much horror.
Many tears followed his recital ; not one of his auditors was
an indifferent listener ; all had individually, or in persons dear
to them, partaken of the tender Marion's benevolence. Their
sick beds had been comforted by her charity ; her voice had
often administered consolation to their sorrows ; her hand had
smoothed their pillows, and placed the crucifix before their
dying eyes. Some had recovered to bless her, and some de-
parted to record her virtues in heaven.
" Ah ! is she gone ? " cried a young woman, raising her
face, covered with tears, from the bosom of her infant; "is the
loveliest lady tliat ever the sun shone upon, cold in the grave ?
Alas, for me I she it was that gave me the roof under which my
baby was born ; she it was who, when the Southron soldiers
slew my father, and drove us from our home in Ayrshire, gave
to my old mother, and my then wounded husband, our cottage
by the burnside. Ah ! well can I spare him now to avenge her
murder."
The night being far advanced, Halbert retired, at the invi*
MARION'S DEATH AND WALLACE'S VENGEANCE. 401
tation of this young woman, to repose on the heather bed of
her husband, who was now absent with Wallace. The rest of
the peasantry withdrew to their coverts, while she and some
other women whose anxieties would not allow them to sleep,
sat at the cavern's mouth watching the slowly moving hours.
The objects of their fond and fervent prayers, Wallace and
his little army, were rapidly pursuing their march. It was
midnight — all was silent as they hurried through the glen, as
they ascended with flying footsteps the steep acclivities that
led to the cliffs which overhung the vale of EUerslie. Wallace
must pass along their brow. Beneath was the tomb of his
sacrificed Marion ! He rushed forward to snatch one look,
even of the roof which shrouded her beloved remains.
But in the moment before he mounted the intervening
height, a soldier in English armor crossed the path, and was
seized by his men. One of them would have cut him down,
but Wallace turned away the weapon. " Hold, Scot I " cried
he, " you are not a Southron, to strike the defenseless. This
man has no sword."
The reflection on their enemy, which this plea of mercy
contained, reconciled the impetuous Scots to the clemency of
their leader. The rescued man joyfully recognizing the voice
of Wallace, exclaimed, " It is my lord ! It is Sir William Wal-
lace that has saved my life a second time ! "
" Who are you ? " asked Wallace ; " that helmet can cover
no friend of mine."
" I am your servant Dugald," returned the man, " he whom
your brave arm saved from the battle-ax of Arthur Heselrigge."
" I cannot now ask you how you came by that armor ; but
if you be yet a Scot, throw it off and follow me."
" Not to EUerslie, my lord," cried he ; " it has been plun-
dered and burnt to the ground by the governor of Lanark."
'' Then," exclaimed Wallace, striking liis breast, " are the
remains of my beloved Marion forever ravished from my eyes ?
Insatiate monster ! "
"He is Scotland's curse," cried the veteran of Largs.
*' Forward, my lord, in mercy to your country's groans I "
Wallace had now mounted the craig which overlooked El-
lerslie. His once happy home had disappeared, and all beneath
lay a heap of smoking ashes. He hastened from the sight, and
directing the point of his sword with a forceful action toward
Lanark, reechoed with supernatural strength, ** Forward I "
TOL. IX. — 26
402 MARION'S DEATH AND WALLACE'S VENGEANCE.
With the rapidity of lightning his little host flew over the
hills, reached the cliffs which divided them from the town, and
leaped down before the outward trench of the castle of Lanark.
In a moment Wallace sprang so feeble a barrier ; and with a
shout of death, in which the tremendous slogan of his men now
joined, he rushed upon the guard that held the northern gate.
Here slept the governor. These opponents being slain by
the first sweep of the Scottish swords, Wallace hastened on-
ward, winged with twofold retribution. The noise of battle
was behind him ; for the shouts of Iiis men had aroused the
garrison and drawn its soldiers, half naked, to the spot. He
reached the door of the governor. The sentinel who stood
there flew before the terrible warrior that presented himself.
All the mighty vengeance of Wallace blazed in his face and
seemed to surround his figure with a terrible splendor. With
one stroke of his foot he drove the door from its hinges, and
rushed into the room.
What a sight for the now awakened and guilty Heselrigge !
It was the husband of the defenseless woman he had murdered,
come in the power of justice, with uplifted arm and vengeance
in his eyes 1 With a terrific scream of despair, and an outcry
for the mercy he dared not expect, he fell back into the bed
and sought an unavailing shield beneath its folds.
" Marion ! Marion ! " cried Wallace, as he threw himself
towards the bed and buried the sword, yet red with her blood,
through the coverlid, deep into the lieart of her murderer. A
fiendlike yell from the slain Heselrigge told him his work was
done ; and drawing out the sword he took the streaming blade
in his hand. " Vengeance is satisfied," cried he : " thus, O
God ! do I henceforth divide self from my heart 1 '* As he
spoke he snapped the sword in twain, and throwing away the
pieces, put back with his hand the impending weapons of his
brave companions, who, having cleared the passage of their
assailants, had hurried forward to assist in ridding their country
of so detestable a tyrant.
"'Tis done," cried he. As he spoke he drew down the
coverlid and discovered the body of the governor weltering in
blood. The ghastly countenance, on which the agonies of hell
seemed imprinted, glared horrible even in death.
Wallace turned away ; but the men exulting in the sight,
with a shout of triumph exclaimed, " So fall the enemies of Sir
William Wallace ! "
BANNOCKBURN. 408
" Rather so fall the enemies of Scotland I " cried he : " from
this hour Wallace has neither love nor resentment but for her.
Heaven has heard me devote myself to work our country's free-
dom or to die. Who will follow me in so just a cause ? "
" All I — with Wallace forever 1 "
The new clamor which this resolution excited, intimidated
a fresh band of soldiers, who were hastening across the court-
yard to seek the enemy in the governor's apartments. But on
hearing the noise they hastily retreated, and no exertions of
their officers could prevail on them to advance again, or even to
appear in sight, when the resolute Scots with Wallace at their
head soon afterwards issued from the great gate. The Eng-
lish commanders seeing the panic of their men, and which they
were less able to surmount on account of the way to the gate
being strewn with their slain comrades, fell back into the
shadow of the towers, where by the light of the moon, like men
paralyzed, they viewed the departure of their enemies over the
trenches.
BANNOCKBURN.
Robert Bbuge's Address to his Abmt.
Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled,
Scots, wham Bruce has aften led,
Welcome to your gory bed,
Or to victorie !
Now's the day, and noVs the hour ;
See the front o' battle lower ;
See approach proud Edward's power—
Chains and slaverie !
Wha will be a traitor knave ?
Wha can fill a coward's grave ?
Wha sae base as be a slave ?
Let him turn and flee !
Wha for Scotland's King and law
Freedom's sword will strongly draw,
Free-man stand, or free-man fa' ?
Let him on wi' me I
404 BANNOCKBURN.
By oppression's woes and pains I
By your sons in servile chains I
We will drain our dearest YemMf
But they shaU be free I
Lay the proud usurpers low I
Tyrants fall in every foe I
Liberty's in every blow I
Let us do, or die I
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